


where the monarchy is headed

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Communication, Jealous Steve Rogers, M/M, Politics, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Royalty, Sibling Love, Sibling Rivalry, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:03:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When T'Challa says he wants to court Sam, Sam is <i>all in.</i> And then come the "prince lessons." There's a lot more to this dating-a-king-thing than Sam realized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "I Just Can't Wait to Be King", because I think I'm hilarious. And this is loosely based on [this post](https://www.amemorymaze.tumblr.com/post/144959269178/consider-this-a-princess-diaries-esque-tchalcon) about a Princess Diaries AU. There are no grandmas here, though.

It takes Sam nearly two weeks to realize he’s being followed. And that means whoever is following him is _very_ good at their job, because Sam is _trained_ , okay, he knows what he’s doing. And if they’re good enough to last two weeks, it’s possible he’s only noticing now because they’re letting him.

It makes him twitchy.

He realizes he’s being followed, but he doesn’t know who it is following him. That makes him _very_ twitchy. It was not long ago at all that he was being held _underwater_ in a super-villain prison.

So. Twitchy.

Barnes is back to being unfrozen and un-murderous (most days), so Steve is back to making gooey eyes at him and lovingly insulting him. The three of them train together, every morning, and now Sam has to deal with _two_ assholes lapping him. Barnes frequently trips him on top of just kicking up dust. It’s rude, and Sam usually retaliates by messing with the fancy shampoo T’Challa gave Barnes.

They’re running, but Sam is twitchy again because he knows that person is back. Steve is running his little (big) heart out, but Barnes is sticking suspiciously close to Sam, like at any moment a “tree root” is going to pop up and lay him flat.

“You know you’re being followed, right?” Barnes says, voice low and barely audible over the screaming of the monkeys and birds in the jungle around them. Sam nearly trips anyway, no outstretched foot necessary.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “I noticed. But I don’t know who it is.”

Barnes clenches his jaw. “I’ll find out,” he says resolutely. Sam’s starting to feel _fond_ of him until he speeds up, making sure dirt and mud fly up behind him and at Sam.

“Thanks, asshole!” Sam calls after him.

“On your left!” Steve chirps cheerfully, voice coming from behind him, then next to him, then ahead of him. Sam swears. Supersoldiers are the literal worst.

There’s an intense commotion from the trees, and Steve is heading straight toward the blob that is Barnes wrestling with someone. Even down an arm, Barnes is no easy mark. Sam puts on a burst of speed in time to see Steve launch himself at the other person, literally barreling straight into them. He used to that with his shield in front of him. Now he just uses his body.

“Stop!” The person commands. Steve holds up a hand, standing between the attacker and Barnes.

“Buck, what’s going on?” He asks.

“Why are you following Wilson?” Barnes snarls. “Who do you work for?”

“I work for no one.” Sam is finally close enough to see his tail’s face. It’s a woman, tall and formidable. She’s got a split lip, most likely thanks to Barnes, but she’s holding her head high.

“You’ve been following him for weeks,” Steve says, making Sam start a little in surprise. Steve never said anything about it, so Sam had figured he didn’t know. He should’ve known better. Steve didn’t survive a war and everything else he’s been through by being unaware of his surroundings.

“Aren’t you one of T’Challa’s people?” Sam asks. He recognizes her, he thinks. Her lip curls a little, but she doesn’t look angry.

“I am not one of his _people_ ,” she counters. “I am his advisor.”

“Why are you following me?” Sam asks. He feels a little calmer, now that he can see who it is. Not a _lot_ calmer, considering anyone in T’Challa’s inner circle can probably snap him like a twig, but at least he has a face to put with the rustling sound in the bushes.

“His highness is…” She pauses. “His highness would like to speak with you.”

“His highness speaks to me every day,” Sam points out.

“And you’ve been following Sam for weeks,” Steve repeats. “Why would T’Challa send you to follow him for weeks just to give a message?”

“He did not send me,” she says, eyes flashing. “I am not a messenger.”

“Then _what—_ ” Steve starts, losing patience, but Sam cuts him off.

“Let’s take it to T’Challa then.” He raises his eyebrows when everyone turns to look at him. “He wants to speak to me, fine. Let’s go.”

She purses her lips, but inclines her head. “You should wash first.” Sam looks down at his sweaty shirt and sees the mud splattered across his chest. He glares at Barnes, who shrugs blithely.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Sam is waiting outside T’Challa’s board room, Steve and Barnes flanking him on either side.

“If he wants us to leave…” Steve mutters. “I don’t know where we’ll go.”

“Natasha can find us something,” Barnes says confidently.

“That’s if he lets us go,” Steve shoots back. “Maybe he doesn’t want us in his palace anymore but he doesn’t want us in the world at large.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Sam argues. “Why would he let us stay here this long if he was just going to hand us over?”

Steve shrugs. “He still supports the Accords.”

That’s true, and it does rankle under Sam’s skin. Before anyone can say anything else, the solid mahogany door swings open and the same woman is standing there. Her lip is swollen.

“His highness will see you now,” she announces. The three of them start to move in, but she holds up a hand. “Only you,” she tells Sam.

“Uh, why?” Sam asks.

“King T’Challa wishes a private conversation with you.”

Steve is starting to get that mulish look on his face that means he’s gearing up to fight. Barnes elbows him. “Fine,” he says. “We’ll stay out here.” It’s a reassurance and a threat in one. Steve glares at Barnes and Barnes looks unimpressed. “We know by now we can trust T’Challa,” Barnes says quietly. “And if we can’t, Wilson can handle himself until we get through the door.”

Steve’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t argue. “Okay,” he agrees. “Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam assures him. “I’ll be fine. T’Challa’s not going to hurt me.” If nothing else, T’Challa is reasonable. And if any of them have reason to be wary of the guy, it’s Barnes, thanks to the whole T’Challa trying to kill him thing, so if Barnes thinks it’s safe, it’s probably okay.

She lets him pass and, surprisingly, closes the door behind him without following him in. Sam walks into the room and sees T’Challa out on the balcony.

“Hello, Sam,” he says.

“Hi,” Sam answers cautiously. “You want to tell me what all this secrecy’s about?”

“I am sorry Shuri was following you,” T’Challa says right away. “I want you to know that I did not ask her to do that.”

“Yeah, she made that clear,” Sam tells him. T’Challa looks apologetic.

“Shuri is…protective.”

“Okay,” Sam says. He doesn’t know what that has to do with anything. He doesn’t think he’s the highest threat to T’Challa, so he’s not sure why she singled him out to follow.

“Sam, I wanted to talk to you because…” T’Challa stops. “I have things that I wish to…” He rubs his hands on his pants and Sam realizes, with a start, that T’Challa’s _nervous_. Something’s going down.

“Are you kicking us out?” Sam asks bluntly. He doesn’t know what number Natasha’s using these days—she ditches her phone so often it’s impossible to keep track—but Barnes will find her somehow. It’s some kind of scary Russian spy shit, the way those two communicate. Smoke signals or something; Sam doesn’t know.

“No!” T’Challa reaches a hand forward but stops before he actually touches Sam. Sam stares down at the space where T’Challa’s hand was a second ago. “The opposite, actually.”

“You’re asking us…to stay?” Sam asks confusedly.

T’Challa takes a deep breath. “Sam, I would like to court you,” he says. “If you are—if you want that.” He’s _blushing_ , Sam realizes with a funny little drop in his stomach. T’Challa, the Black Panther, the king of Wakanda, is blushing as he…asks Sam out?

“Court me?” Sam parrots. He feels like he’s missed a step going down a staircase. His brain is desperately trying to keep up, but it got lost several sentences back.

“Yes,” T’Challa says, chin high despite his blush. “I was waiting to make my intentions clear until I knew you better, but Shuri.” He rolls his eyes. “Shuri followed you. I know that Barnes did not take that well.”

“He doesn’t like being followed,” Sam says dazedly.

“He does not like _you_ being followed,” T’Challa corrects quietly. It takes Sam a second, brain still spinning away like it’s loading, but he realizes what T’Challa’s implying.

“Nuh-uh,” Sam says quickly. “Nope, not me and Barnes.”

“And Rogers?” T’Challa asks.

Sam hesitates a little, because—well. “No,” he says. “Not—not for real.” There was a kiss, once, when they were running around after Rumlow and Barnes and whatever robots the world saw fit to throw at them. But Sam had been drunk and weepy and Steve had been sad and weepy and it ended up being a little bit terrible. And Sam wasn’t really looking to get into a relationship with a guy who was chasing ghosts that hard, not even if it was Steve. It took Sam long enough to get rid of his own ghosts.

“Hang on,” Sam says. “Were you not making a move because you thought I was with one of them?”

“Or both of them,” T’Challa admits, and that’s…something. Sam blinks a few times to clear _that_ mental image away. He might revisit it later. But maybe not, the way this conversation’s going.

“Well, I’m not,” Sam tells him slowly. “So…”

“So,” T’Challa agrees. They stare at each other for a minute, and then T’Challa reaches a tentative hand out and rests it on Sam’s arm. Sam looks down at T’Challa’s fingers, at the rings adorning them, feels the callouses and the warmth, and his heart starts beating a little faster.

“What exactly does courting entail?” Sam asks. He doesn’t remember giving his vocal cords the okay to go all low and husky like that, but they went ahead and did it anyway. T’Challa doesn’t seem to mind. His thumb starts to stroke Sam’s arm a little and it makes goosebumps rise up on Sam’s skin.

“Well,” T’Challa starts. “Dinners together. Walks in the gardens. Getting to know one another. You have been here some time, but we have not been alone much.” He’s blushing again. Sam is _delighted_. The king is _shy_. And he is _bad at flirting_.

“That sounds good to me,” Sam says. His stomach flutters a little. He feels like he’s fifteen again, working up the nerve to kiss Suzanne Ingram for the first time. He raises his free hand and puts it on top of T’Challa’s. T’Challa smiles at him and Sam’s stomach drops. Oh, yeah. He’s definitely feeling it. But then T’Challa’s smile drops.

“There are complications,” he says apologetically. “I am the king.”

“I noticed,” Sam says. T’Challa doesn’t laugh.

“There are certain expectations of whomever a royal is courting. I do not want—I would like privacy, as we get to know each other. But eventually it will be known.” T’Challa almost gulps. “If…we get to an eventually.”

_Holy shit_. Sam feels like he just drank four glasses of champagne in a row or something. His blood is buzzing.

“Uh,” he says eloquently. “Uh huh.”

T’Challa smiles faintly and puts a hand on Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes flutter closed like he’s a damn Disney princess. “I want you to know, I am very glad you are amenable to this courtship.”

Sam can’t help it. He cracks up laughing. He laughs harder when T’Challa’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “That’s a really formal way of putting it,” Sam explains through his laughter. “I am _quite_ amenable.”

T’Challa still looks a little confused, but he soldiers on. “But I do not want you to think you are obligated,” he says earnestly. “You and your friends are my guests. I do not want to take advantage of that.”

“You’re not,” Sam assures him. “I’m a big boy.” His face floods with heat as he realizes what he just said. And then it gets worse when T’Challa _smirks_.

“Well, well,” he says. “Getting more amenable by the second, I see.”

Sam huffs. “Yeah, okay, don’t be getting cocky.”

T’Challa smirks _again_ and Sam thinks he might combust. T’Challa is a good looking man, and though Sam can’t say he consciously thought about climbing him like a tree previous to this meeting, his mind is making up for lost time now.

“But Sam.” T’Challa turns serious again. “When I said expectations, I meant it. Appearances, ceremonies, customs that must be followed. It is a lot of pressure. And I understand if you do not want that.”

That’s an actual concern. It was something that Sam thought about with Steve, because the man gets a lot of press. Sam doesn’t even want to think about how much that would be amplified with a literal monarch of a country.

But he’s looking at T’Challa’s hopeful face, T’Challa’s thumb sweeping across his skin, and before he really means to he blurts out, “I want to try.”

The smile that breaks across T’Challa’s face makes Sam’s mouth go dry. He’s gone from zero to sixty in the course of one conversation. Well, okay, not zero. He does remember checking T’Challa out a few times over the two months they’ve been in Wakanda. That Black Panther suit doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Now Sam’s blushing.

“May I have dinner with you?” T’Challa asks. “Tonight?”

Sam gives him a look. “T’Challa, we eat dinner together every night. It’s a communal table.”

“I meant just us, in a private room. There are some perks to being king, you know,” T’Challa teases.

“Yeah,” Sam says with a smile. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” T’Challa murmurs, putting his hand back on Sam’s cheek and brushing his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone. “I will look forward to it for the rest of the day.”

“Me too.” He will, Sam realizes. He’s already excited.

“Thank you,” T’Challa says, and then there’s an awkward beat where neither of them know what to say. Is Sam supposed to leave now? They made their dinner plans—is that the end of this meeting? T’Challa looks as unsure as Sam feels.

“I better get back out there before Steve and Barnes break that door down,” Sam offers. He doesn’t think he’s imaging the relief in T’Challa’s face.

“They would have to get through Shuri as well,” T’Challa reminds him. “Though there are two of them. Both enhanced with super-strength. I suppose it is a possibility.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay, buddy,” he says, because he might have a crush on the guy but he’s not just going to listen to him doubt his best friend. T’Challa laughs a little.

“Anyway,” he says. “I will see you tonight.”

“Yeah, see you tonight,” Sam echoes. He thinks for a second T’Challa might kiss him, and he licks his lips in anticipation. T’Challa’s smile grows, but he just nods at Sam and takes a step back. Sam tries not to feel too disappointed.

He gets back out the door and finds Steve pacing in the hallway. Barnes is leaning against the wall. Both snap to attention when Sam comes out. Shuri gives him a long look before disappearing back inside the meeting room.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks.

“I am incredibly great,” Sam says. “And I think I’m dating the king.”

 

“Barnes, you better not use up all the hot water!” Sam yells.

“You already showered!” Barnes yells back, which means he’s absolutely using up all the hot water.

“It is like a thousand degrees here with a thousand percent humidity!” Sam points out. He bangs on the door. “Get out!”

“Oh my God, T’Challa’s not enough for you, now you need me too?” Barnes says, and Sam’s face catches fire.

“Shut up!”

Steve is laughing, somewhere outside the bathroom, and Sam’s going to make some kind of comment—he’s not entirely sure what about, but he figures if he opens his mouth something will come out—when the shower turns off. Sam snaps his mouth shut and waits impatiently.

Barnes comes out in just a towel, hair dripping everywhere, holding the towel around his waist loosely in his fist. It doesn’t look very secure, and he doesn’t look very concerned. Sam is torn on that particular subject. On the one hand, _God_ , he doesn’t want to see Barnes’s balls, but on the other, he thinks it’s kind of nice that Barnes is so unself-conscious. Steve was worried he’d be embarrassed about the scars covering almost inch of him, but he doesn’t seem to care.

It could be tragic, Sam supposes, if they let themselves go down that path.

“Showering before your big date, huh?” Barnes says now, waggling his eyebrows horrifically. “Expecting something?”

“Buck, leave Sam alone,” Steve chides, far too seriously to be real. “You know he sweats a lot when he’s nervous.”

“Y’all are assholes,” Sam informs them both before closing the bathroom door. He can hear them laughing and then he can hear them murmuring and he’s pretty sure there’s no _way_ that towel’s staying up much longer. They better be done when he’s out of the shower.

When he gets out, he can hear a woman’s voice in the room, which is weird. It’s not Natasha, so he doesn’t know who else it would be. He kind of wishes he’d brought some clothes in here with him. But he shakes his head at himself. He’s got a good body. It’s fine.

It’s Shuri. She looks him up and down and he suddenly feels a lot less fine. She raises an eyebrow. “Well, his highness always did like the soldiers,” she says. Her tone doesn’t sound very complimentary.

“Thanks…?” Sam’s completely confused.

“You are having dinner with the king tonight,” she tells him.

“Yeah, I know,” Sam shoots back. “He invited me.”

Steve and Barnes are caught in between the two of them, eyes going back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match. Steve looks concerned, but Barnes looks amused. Asshole.

“He is hoping you will have dinner with him for many nights to come,” she says. And Sam can’t help the way he blushes a little. Barnes’s eyes widen in delight. Great.

“I’m hoping that, too,” Sam admits. Steve gets this soft little smile on his face and it makes Sam blush even more.

“You are not who I would choose for the king.”

Well. That’s some nice cold water doused all over him. “Good thing you don’t get the choice, right?” Sam snaps.

“Sam is perfect,” Steve argues. “T’Challa’d be so lucky.”

“He is the king of Wakanda,” Shuri reminds them all. “You,” she says to Sam, “are not Wakandan.”

Sam doesn’t know how to respond to that. If it was illegal, T’Challa wouldn’t have bothered, right? But Shuri seems pretty mad about it.

“So?” Barnes finally asks. Shuri’s eyes flash.

“Typical American,” she mutters. “You think Wakanda should be happy to have you. We have never needed you before and do not need you now. He has much to learn about who he entertains while being king.”

“And you’re an expert?” Sam shoots back, anger flaring in his chest. It’s partially for himself, but it’s also, he realizes, for T’Challa. Isn’t that some kind of borderline treason?

Shuri takes a deep breath, composing herself. “I am not here to fight with you,” she promises. “The king has chosen to court you and I will not try to change his mind.” Sam figures she probably tried plenty before.

“So why are you here?” Steve asks bluntly. He’s Mr. Polite to little old ladies, but that doesn’t stick around long if he thinks someone has it out for his friends.

“You need someone to teach you to act appropriately,” Shuri tells Sam. “You need to be ready for the people watching you closely. We have customs, mannerisms, things that are important for you to get right. You must learn.”

Sam blinks. “That…doesn’t sound bad,” he admits. “We’ve been pretty sheltered from your culture while we’ve been here.”

“Yes,” she agrees, the look on her face telling him she’s not exactly happy about that.

“So how do I learn?”

Shuri purses her lips. “I will teach you.”

Barnes lets out a little guffaw and everyone turns to look at him. “You’re gonna give him _prince lessons_?” He asks, a little gleefully.

Shuri shrugs. “Well, if he and the king marry he would be prince consort.”

“ _Whoa_ ,” Sam says. “Can we calm down?” His stomach dropped at her words. If they marry. Holy shit. They haven’t even gone on a date yet.

Steve has a crease between his eyebrows that never means anything good. “Can Sam _be_ prince consort?” He asks. “If he’s not even a citizen of Wakanda?”

“He can legally,” Shuri says. “The people may not like it. But if he is married to the king, citizenship is not really a question.”

“If Sam wants to,” Steve reminds her. “He may not even fall in love with T’Challa.”

Barnes makes a considering noise. “Why wouldn’t he? I’m half in love with him already.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Stop it.”

“I’m just saying. If Sam changes his mind, maybe I’ll have a chance.”

“You will not,” Shuri says, sounding bored. Steve and Barnes both look offended.

“Uh, okay,” Sam cuts in before Steve can wax poetic about Barnes. “Can I get dressed now?”

Shuri shrugs, unconcerned. “Go ahead. I will need to approve your attire anyway.” She tries to follow him into his bedroom and he shakes his head.

“Nope,” he tells her. “You are not who I want to see me naked today.”

“You cannot have sexual relations with the king of Wakanda until—”

“God, _stop_ ,” Sam begs. “I get it. Customs, requirements, yeah, yeah. But right now, I’m putting some clothes on and going to dinner with a guy I’ve barely had three private conversations with. Okay? Save the rest of your ideas for a time we may actually need them.”

Shuri narrows her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “But I will be in the hallway.”

Sam closes the door on her and leans his head against it. Holy shit. He knew there would be media considerations, but still. _Holy shit_. Talk about putting the cart before the horse. Marriage. _Prince consort_. Good God.

His mother would probably demand a tiara.

Maybe he should call this off. He doesn’t even _believe_ in monarchy as a system of government. He can’t be part of that. Plus, wouldn’t that mean he’d have to live in Wakanda forever? Never go back to DC? This whole fugitive thing is temporary. Soon it’ll all blow over and they’ll get to go home. Right? Sam’s got some issues with the US of A, most of which can be summed up in the way he was held underwater and not given _any_ kind of due process, but it’s still his country. He’s a bit ideological, underneath it all, and he thinks they can fix the parts that are broken. He _wants_ to fix the parts of the US that are broken.

So he can’t get involved with T’Challa. He can’t.

He pulls on an undershirt and some boxers, scanning his closet. He’ll still go to dinner with T’Challa, because he said he would. And he needs to let him down. T’Challa’s a good guy; he won’t be weird about it. It’ll be fine.

He doesn’t put too much effort into his appearance—he’s not _cruel_ ; he’s not going to bring his A game and then snatch it away from the dude—but he does but _some_ effort. T’Challa’s hot, and Sam can’t help it if he wonders if maybe T’Challa will be down for a little casual fling. Sam’s not sure he’d be good at a casual fling, but he’s willing to give it a shot. If kings can even do that sort of thing. Back in the day, didn’t kings have concubines? Sam could be a concubine. Laying around eating grapes and then getting fucked. Sounds nice for a temporary gig.

Shuri doesn’t say anything about his clothes, but Barnes whistles at him and Steve contributes an embarrassingly dorky _yowza_ to the ribbing, so Sam knows he doesn’t look bad. Shuri leaves him outside a room he’s never been to before and Sam’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. Does he knock? Does he just walk in?

The door swings open and saves him from making a decision. “Hello, Sam,” T’Challa says, smiling as he lets Sam in.

“Hi,” Sam responds, looking T’Challa up and down almost against his will. _Goddamn_ can that man wear a suit. T’Challa leads him to a table and suddenly Sam finds himself saying, “I’m not so sure about this…all this.”

Not exactly how he’d planned to do it, but it would probably be rude to go through the whole dinner without saying it. A girl in college he’d dated for _eight months_ had waited until after Sam had paid the check to break up with him, and he’s still a little miffed about how she’d been playing footsie with him under the table while she held the pin on that grenade.

“Oh,” T’Challa says. His face drops a little, but he nods. “I understand. It is a lot to ask.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I mean, I’m not even Wakandan.”

“True,” T’Challa concedes. “Well. We can still eat.”

Now Sam just feels bad. And it’s awkward. “It’s not that I’m not, uh, attracted to you or anything.” He cringes a little. Smooth, Wilson. Way to get rid of that awkwardness.

T’Challa smiles ruefully. “Thank you.”

They look down at their plates silently. A server brings out wine and T’Challa shakes his head minutely. Okay, no wine. The server gives Sam a dirty look, like he knows this is all Sam’s fault.

“Have you asked it of many people?” Sam blurts. Fuck, why is he such a mess? T’Challa’s hot, sure, but Sam’s been around beautiful people before. Maybe it’s the beauty mixed with him being king.

“What?” T’Challa asks. Sam can feel himself blushing.

“Well. You said you know it’s a lot to ask. So…” Sam trails off.

“Ah,” T’Challa says. “Well. Not many, no.” He won’t meet Sam’s eyes and now Sam feels even worse. T’Challa thought he was special or something. “It is…difficult,” T’Challa goes on. “People are not themselves around us. My family. They are very much on their best behavior.”

“And I insulted you the first time we met,” Sam realizes. T’Challa laughs.

“It was not an insult,” he assures Sam. “More…teasing. I have not had much teasing in my life. It was refreshing.”

Sam’s seen the way people stop what they’re doing when T’Challa walks by, not outright bowing but at least bending their heads a bit in deference. He’s never heard anyone raise their voice at him. He’s also seen more than one hungry look, and he can imagine being the prince—and now the king—means there are plenty of people coming after him solely for his title and his power.

And T’Challa’s come off as a bit shy, when he’s not chasing people around trying to murder them. He probably would’ve been shy even without being royalty, but that certainly doesn’t help him, never knowing who he can trust and who’s just hanging around because of his blood. He smiles at Sam again, a reassuring, steady smile.

“I hope we can be friends,” he says, and it doesn’t even sound like a cliché. Sam is suddenly the one with a pit in his stomach, even though _he’d_ put the kibosh on the whole situation. He bites his lip. Is he really going to run just because of a little commitment scare? Is he going to prove T’Challa right about how he probably thinks everyone sees him? Is he going to prove _Shuri_ right?

“I got a little freaked out,” Sam admits. “But…”

“But?” T’Challa echoes, eyebrows raising slightly. Is Sam imaging how hopeful he sounds? Sam’s got butterflies in his stomach.

“But I’m no coward,” Sam says firmly. “Tell your advisor I’m ready for my prince lessons.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! So, I live in the US, and have never been to any part of Africa. So if at any point this starts to feel too "white Westerner who doesn't know shit", please feel free to give me tips! Comments on here are fine or [my tumblr ask box](http://www.biblionerd07.tumblr.com/ask) is always open. This chapter goes into some polytheism, and there will be some more throughout this fic. It's not a heavy theme but it is there. Again, not a topic I'm super familiar with, so let me know if that's getting a little weird too. I'm taking some names and history from the comics, but I only have a cursory knowledge of the Black Panther comics and Civil War has already changed a few things, so this isn't going to be very comics-canon-compliant.

“So?” Steve calls from his bedroom as soon as the front door opens. “How’d it go?”

Sam pops the top button on his shirt as he walks inside. Barnes raises an eyebrow. “Not that well,” he guesses. “If you’re stripping for _us_.”

Steve flicks him and Sam flips him off. “It was fine,” he says. The little wrinkle comes back to Steve’s eyebrows.

“Fine?” He asks. “ _Just_ fine?”

“No, it was good,” Sam promises.

“How good?” Steve’s putting on the worried face and Sam has too much to think about to deal with that right now. Barnes rolls his eyes.

“Let him talk, Jesus.”

“Well, I went in thinking I’d call it off, and then somehow I decided I’d stick with it,” Sam admits. “Is that crazy?”

“No!” Steve reassures him, at the same time Barnes says,

“Not for that ass.”

Steve shoots Barnes a look. “Are you going to keep doing that all night?”

“Don’t be jealous, baby,” Barnes teases with a grin. “You know my hand is only for you.”

“Even if you have eyes for someone else,” Steve says wryly, rolling his eyes. “ _Anyway_. Tell us about it.”

Steve and Barnes are sprawled out on their stomachs on the bed and Steve pats the spot next to him, where there is a tiny sliver of space not taken up by gargantuan supersoldier body. Sam snorts, thinking of his sister having slumber parties with cookie dough and hair braiding and talking about boys. Cookie dough doesn’t sound bad, and Barnes loves getting his hair braided, but Sam needs to focus.

Sam kicks off his shoes and obligingly wedges himself into the spot between Steve’s armpit and the edge of the bed. He’s probably going to fall off before he finishes the story, but that’ll be okay because it’ll make Steve feel guilty and Sam can make him help with the pranks against Barnes for a few days.

“We had dinner,” Sam starts. “And I told him I wasn’t sure, so he said he understood but wanted us to be friends, and I just…I don’t know. I was thinking about he probably doesn’t get to date much, because he’s the king and people always want something from him, and I…” Sam shrugs. “I didn’t want to be another person to let him down.”

“But you _want_ to be dating him, right?” Steve asks, concerned. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to just because you’re a good person.”

“No, I do,” Sam says quickly. “I just panicked earlier. All that talk about getting married and being prince consort freaked me out.”

“Did you kiss?” Barnes asks. He has his feet kicked up in the air like he’s fourteen.

“No,” Sam says, feeling a little frustrated about it. “I said I wanted to give it a shot and we had wine and dinner and that was it.”

“Maybe the wine wasn’t strong enough,” Barnes muses, which could be kind of insulting if Sam thinks too hard about it.

“What’d you talk about?” Steve asks.

Sam cringes a little. Things had gotten a little awkward again after he’d decided to keep going with this courting business. “Um. We talked about Wakandan vibranium deposits.”

There’s a pause. “Oh,” Steve says.

“The wine was _definitely_ not strong enough,” Barnes says.

Sam groans, flopping down and burying his face in the bedspread. “I got all weird and tongue-tied,” he admits. Neither of the other two say anything and he looks up to see them grinning at him. “What?”

“You got a big crush on him, huh?” Steve says, sounding like they’re in middle school or something.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, kind of embarrassed now. “Maybe.”

“You do,” Steve says, grin growing. “You get nervous around him and you can’t talk.”

“Well, I didn’t have much to say about Wakandan vibranium deposits,” Sam points out. “Since I know _nothing_ about that.”

“You’ll have to study up,” Steve says, overly-serious. “There might be a test next time.”

Barnes cackles and Sam head-butts Steve’s massive shoulder. “Besides,” Barnes adds. “Someday those could be _your_ vibranium deposits.” Sam gets that squirmy uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and Barnes winces. “Sorry,” he adds, abashed. “Didn’t actually mean to freak you out again.”

“And anyway, I don’t know how willing Wakanda would be to share vibranium with an outsider, even one involved with the king.” Steve says that like he thinks it’s soothing, and Sam shares an incredulous little headshake with Barnes. Steve Rogers does not understand being gun-shy about commitment. Steve Rogers does not understand anything _but_ commitment.

“Are you gonna see him again?” Barnes asks. He’s half on top of Steve now, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder blade as he looks over at Sam.

“Well, I have to see him every day,” Sam reminds him. “We’re his refugees or whatever we are.”

“But are you gonna _see_ him?” Barnes clarifies. Sam’s getting the feeling Barnes knows a thing or two about sisters and slumber parties himself. Or maybe he’s been watching too many rom-coms.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his lips curl up in a little smile. “We’re having dinner again tomorrow.”

Steve grabs Sam in a half-hug, half-headlock, wedging Sam’s face into his armpit. “I’m happy for you, buddy,” he says. “Long as he’s good to you.”

“I don’t think he knows how to be anything but,” Sam says, and his voice might go a teensy bit dreamy. Who could blame him? A literal _king_ is trying to _woo_ him. He gets to be a little dreamy about it.

“Tomorrow, soon as you get there, plant him one right on the kisser,” Barnes advises. “Works every time.”

“How many times have you tried that strategy?” Sam asks skeptically.

“Just once,” Steve answers for him, smiling goofily. They look dangerously close to starting to canoodle and Sam’s about to complain about it when there’s a knock at the door. All three of them tense up. They have safety in Wakanda, sure, but they’re still three veterans, and fugitives to boot. Unexpected visitors at night don’t _feel_ safe.

“Stay here,” Barnes mutters at them both. Steve purses his lips, but Barnes silences him with a look. He goes to the front door and peers through the peephole. His shoulders relax a bit, though not all the way. He opens the door a little cautiously.

It’s Shuri. “Hello,” she says, glancing down at Barnes’s slippers. It is approximately seven thousand degrees in their apartment, and the man is wearing slippers.

“Hi,” Sam says, standing up. He assumes she’s there to talk to him. “Is everything alright?”

“You are having dinner with the king again tomorrow,” she says.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms.

“Then you will meet me in the training gym at mid-morning.”

“Uh,” Sam says. He does not want to spar against Shuri. She’s a royal advisor, which in any other country might mean she was some paper-pusher, but in Wakanda that means there’s no way she didn’t at least train with the Dora Milaje. Sam already saw her hold her own against Barnes in hand-to-hand. She’s going to kill him.

She almost rolls her eyes. “We will not be fight training,” she assures him. “Yet.”

“Okay,” he says, trying not to make a face at the way she’d said _yet_. “Then what will we be doing?”

“Etiquette training,” she tells him.

“Already?” Steve asks. “They’ve had dinner once.”

“They are courting,” Shuri says. “There are rules that must be followed.”

Sam shrugs, giving Steve a _cool it_ look. “Well, alright,” he says. If nothing else, it’ll be nice to learn about Wakanda’s culture. He’s never learned much about it, considering how isolationist Wakanda’s always been.

“Midmorning,” she says with a nod, and then she leaves, practically melting away.

“That’s not an exact time,” Sam says to the empty air.

“I feel like she’ll find you if you’re not there when she wants you,” Barnes says. “You better watch your back with that one.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, thinking of the way Shuri’s eyes narrow almost every time she sees him. “I think you might be right.”

 

Sam might possibly spend the whole morning after breakfast in the training gym. He doesn’t want to be late. What if being late to a meeting with Shuri means he doesn’t get to have dinner with T’Challa? Even as awkward as it got the night before, he’s not risking that. It was kind of endearing, actually, hearing T’Challa go on and on about vibranium. Sure, he’s a huge nerd, but Sam doesn’t find that off-putting.

Shuri raises her eyebrows when she comes in and sees him waiting. “Have you been waiting long?” She asks. Her voice has a hint of mocking in it. She knows he’s been there all day.

“No,” he lies, and she almost grins. Sam wants to roll his eyes but she’d probably pop them out of his face or something. He is absolutely secure enough in his masculinity to be terrified of her. And he thought Natasha, Sharon, and Maria were bad. At least they were on his side, mostly, and Shuri may even hold his dating future in her hands.

Sam’s a little stressed out.

“I’m really ready to be trained,” Sam says bravely, because he does have _some_ dignity.

“Good,” she replies. “Follow me.”

She leads him back out the doors, and Sam feels a twinge of annoyance. She asked him to meet her here as a way to throw him off his game, make him nervous about sparring. She’s playing head games.

They go outside, down the palace steps, past the giant panther statues, and take a little path that leads into the thick trees.

“You’re not bringing me out here to kill me, are you?” Sam jokes as they head deeper into the jungle. Shuri looks over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow.

“Is courting King T’Challa worth the risk?” She asks. Sam glares at her back a little and deliberately keeps pace with her. It’s a little early to tell if dating T’Challa’s worth the risk of possibly being murdered, but Sam’s not going to let her goad him like that.

She seems to know where she’s going, though. Sam’s sweating through his shirt in minutes. The air is like sucking water. They’ve been here months and he’s still not used to it. He’s better than he was when they first got here, but he’s mostly hanging out around the palace and the heavily-populated streets around it. They’re in the thick of the jungle now.

Finally, she stops. There’s a clearing, the sky covered in a canopy of trees, and they can’t hear the buzz of the city anymore. It’s a little disconcerting. Sam’s a city boy, and most every time he’s been out of the big cities were times he ended up getting shot at.

Though he’s also now been shot at plenty _in_ big cities, so maybe it balances out.

Shuri drops to the ground and sits cross-legged, so Sam follows suit, though not as gracefully. Her back is ramrod straight. His ass already hurts. Good thing T’Challa doesn’t seem very inclined to use it. That thought just makes him gloomy.

“I am going to tell you about the history of Wakanda,” she says. It feels like they’re the only two people on earth, just them and the rustling of the trees, the snuffling of animals out of sight, monkeys and birds calling out above them.

“You don’t believe in teaching inside?” Sam asks mildly. He’s fine with being out here, now that they’re here. This just seems like a weird way to do etiquette training. Sam doesn’t know much about Wakanda, but he does know that so far all the royal functions T’Challa’s been to that Sam’s heard about have been indoors.

“Out here we can be connected to the earth,” she says. “In the city, everyone is worried about the shopping and the television and the work. It is easy to be distracted and to forget about our ancestors.”

Sam fights the urge to shiver. He feels like this is his big training moment in a kung-fu movie.

“There are four main gods in Wakanda,” Shuri says. “Each god has their own cult and their own special place in our history. Our main god is Bast. She is the panther goddess. Bashenga taught us to follow her and to eat the heart-shaped herb to protect our people and our country. King T’Challa is a direct descendant of Bashenga, and he is watched over by Bast.

Ghekre is the Gorilla God. The followers used to kill and eat the white gorilla, but King T’Chaka outlawed that.”

“Why?” Sam asks, voice hushed. He doesn’t know if he should be interrupting.

Shuri’s lip curls slightly. “They thought they were honoring the gorilla,” she says. “But we had almost none left.”

“Extinction,” Sam realizes. Shuri nods.

“Our scientists are still working to repair the damage. The White Gorilla cult is working out new ways to honor Ghekre, and we will vote as a country on their suggestions.

Sekhmet is the lion goddess. She is very powerful, and she can possess any human if they are pure enough in worshipping her. That is useful if someone is in trouble and the Black Panther cannot get to them, because Sekhmet is fast and strong and can teleport.

And finally there is Sobek, the crocodile god. He used to be the only protection against floods Wakanda could hope for, before our technology advanced. We still pray to Sobek in respect and gratitude. He is also invoked at weddings.” She’s laughing a little at that, and Sam raises his eyebrows questioningly. “It is not only the fields he makes fruitful.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “What about when it’s two men or two women?” He asks. So far Wakanda’s seemed pretty open. The fact that T’Challa didn’t even mention being in the closet, as the _king_ , seems like a good sign.

Shuri shrugs. “Two men can still pray for children,” she says, and Sam’s mouth goes dry because _holy hell_ , what about an heir? Assuming he and T’Challa…Sam gulps a little. It’s kind of a lot to think about when they’ve only had dinner together once.

“So,” he starts, taking his mind off children. “Two gods and two goddesses.”

Shuri nods, and if Sam didn’t know better he’d think she was proud of him for catching that. “There are equal gods and goddesses because men and women are equal,” she tells him. “We have warrior goddesses to remind us women are strong and powerful. The Dora Milaje come from that heritage. And Sobek reminds us that men can do things other than fight. These are givens in our society now,” she says with a little shrug. Sam envies that ease.

“And you…pray to the gods? Are there temples or something to go worship them in?”

Shuri shakes her head, lips pressed together in a little smile. It’s not mocking, for once. It’s almost sweet. “Americans have a very different idea of worship,” she says, and Sam has to laugh a little at that, thinking of his mother in her giant Easter hat every year. “We used to have feasts for each god in their season,” Shuri explains. “But people are more secular now. We are less superstitious. The gods are almost more tradition now than true belief. For some.”

Sam bites his lip, wondering if he can really ask what he wants to. “For you?” He gives in. Shuri tilts her head, assessing him.

“I am—” She cuts herself off, looking away. It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever seen her. All his counselor training kicks in and he makes sure his face is open, warm but not pushy. She looks at him for another minute and then goes on softly. “I used to pray very fervently to Bast. I believed she held answers for me.” Her face hardens. “I was a child.”

“What happened?” Sam asks.

Shuri’s nostrils flare. “Nothing,” she says flatly. “We are done. We will go back to the palace. You must wash before dinner with the king.”

“That’s it?” Sam asks, scrambling to get up as she springs up and heads to the path again. “All you taught me was the name of the gods and like…a basic rundown of what they do. How does that help me?”

Shuri gives him a jerky shrug. “That is all many Wakandans know anymore.” She sounds bitter. “They are just stories.”

“You don’t believe that,” Sam says softly. He saw it on her face. She has faith.

But not in Sam, that’s for sure. She sends him one last blistering look over her shoulder, and then she speeds ahead, leaving him alone on the path. Sam sighs. He’d almost thought he was winning Shuri over.

 

Sam tries not to wince as he waits outside the door again. He has blisters from wandering around the jungle. He stayed on the path, but the path branched out. He hadn’t noticed when he’d been following Shuri. If he’d been able to see the sky, he could’ve figured it out, but there were so many _trees_. He’d longed for his wings so he could get above them and see. He’d barely gotten back before it got dark out, and he’d found Steve pacing like a nervous dog.

He’d kind of jumped on Sam like a dog, too.

Sam had rushed through a shower and is now wondering, _again_ , if he should knock. T’Challa opens the door.

“You got some kind of freaky sense that tells you I’m out here?” Sam asks suspiciously.

“I do have heightened senses, as the Black Panther,” T’Challa admits. “I also have a security system that alerts me to visitors outside my door.”

Sam snorts, and then he pauses. “Outside your door,” he echoes. “This is your place?”

T’Challa smiles. “The whole palace is my place,” he reminds Sam teasingly. “But yes, these are my private quarters.”

Sam’s face floods with heat. It’s not like he’s never been in someone’s house who he wants to sleep with. But for some reason it feels different. He doesn’t know if it’s the king thing or just because T’Challa seems so shy and guarded.

“So,” T’Challa says as he pours Sam some wine. “I noticed you and Shuri were gone much of the morning.” Sam would be delighted if that’s as close to prying as T’Challa ever gets.

“She taught me about the Wakandan gods today,” Sam confirms.

“Where?” T’Challa asks. “I saw you go outside.”

A few butterflies rise in his stomach when he thinks about T’Challa keeping tabs on him. Then again, Shuri’s his advisor. And, as he pointed it, this _is_ his palace. It’s not special for him to notice the comings and goings.

But Sam’s going to let himself think it is.

“She took me to some clearing in the jungle,” Sam tells him with a shrug. “I sure hope I didn’t walk through anything poisonous. I mean, I learned about poisonous plants in training, but we didn’t have to deal with much in the desert.”

“Shuri would not have let you come to harm,” T’Challa promises him, unconcerned as he cuts into his meat. Sam bites his tongue before he can blurt out that she left him there. If he ever wants Shuri to like him—or even to tolerate him—tattling on her isn’t going to do the trick. Besides, it didn’t feel malicious, and Sam’s fine. He may have screamed like a baby when a particularly well-camouflaged bird flew up out of the bushes, but that’s between him and the bird.

They fall into silence. Sam’s casting around for a topic of conversation, anything he can actually _contribute_ to instead of sound like an idiot as he just nods along and says _mmhmm_.

T’Challa clears his throat. He’s not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Do you believe the Nationals have a chance in the World Series?” He asks.

It’s so outside the realm of anything Sam _ever_ expected to hear T’Challa say that it takes a second to make sense. “The Washington Nationals?” Sam clarifies.

T’Challa’s blushing. He’s focusing _intensely_ on his plate. “Yes,” he says. “They are the hometown team for you, are they not?”

Sam’s face erupts in a smile. He can’t help himself. He feels giddy. T’Challa looked up D.C. sports teams. T’Challa came prepared to talk about something that Sam would know about.

_T’Challa likes him_.

Which, okay, Sam already knew. But a guy asking you to dinner isn’t the same thing as a guy studiously looking up baseball stats before your date.

“Yeah,” Sam says, grinning down at his own plate. “Yeah, I’ve seen the Nationals play a few games.” He’s actually not that into baseball, but he’s not going to say that.

“I am more of a rugby fan,” T’Challa admits apologetically. “Baseball is gaining favor here, but I find it a bit…”

“Slow?” Sam guesses. T’Challa almost winces and Sam laughs. “I agree with you,” he promises. “I like basketball better.”

“Ah, basketball.” T’Challa gets a glint in his eye. “Because you believe you can fly.”

Sam laughs out loud. “That is not a reference I would have ever expected to hear from you.”

T’Challa shrugs. “Our technology has been ahead of even Tony Stark’s for years,” he points out. “We can get American music if we want it.” From his bored tone, he seems to be implying that’s a big _if_.

“Uh huh,” Sam says. “Tell me you’ve gotten Motown.”

T’Challa refills Sam’s wineglass. “Who is Motown?”

“Oh, hell no,” Sam says. “You got your phone? Or whatever it is you advanced space people use to look up music?”

T’Challa laughs, sounding almost startled. “My phone works just fine,” he promises, pulling it from the pocket of his suit jacket. Sam wishes, suddenly, that he could see T’Challa in jeans and a T-shirt. Or whatever T’Challa wears on his downtime. Surely he doesn’t lounge around in a suit. Maybe he just wears the Black Panther suit when he’s chilling on the couch.

And, well, okay. Sam wouldn’t exactly hate that.

T’Challa’s phone has a goddamn _retinal scanner_ , and Sam doesn’t know if that’s an advanced-technology thing or just a king-of-the-country thing, but T’Challa unlocks it and hands it over to Sam. “Please,” he says, lips tugging upward. “Enlighten me.”

Sam doesn’t go straight to Marvin Gaye. Busting out _Let’s Get it On_ in T’Challa’s private quarters seems a little on the nose, especially when they haven’t even _kissed_. So he goes safe; he pulls up the Four Tops and turns on auto-play.

“This is nice,” T’Challa comments as a server whisks away their plates and another brings in dessert. “I like this music.”

“Yeah, that’s the right answer,” Sam tells him. He’s taking a bite when he realizes T’Challa is mouthing along. “You liar!” Sam says around a full mouth. His mother would smack him. Talking with his mouth full is bad enough, but it’s extra bad on a date, and extra _extra_ bad on a date with a _king_.

T’Challa laughs apologetically. “Okay,” he says. “Yes, I know Motown. Sam, please. Just because we are an isolationist country does not mean we are cut off from the world. We have been hacking US satellites for TV, movies, and music for decades.”

Sam blinks at him. “You’ve been hacking the US for decades?”

“Well.” T’Challa looks embarrassed. “I personally have only been doing it for…maybe a decade and a half.”

There’s a pause, and then Sam cracks up laughing. T’Challa looks relieved. “So you were just going to pretend not to know any of the music I liked so I could sit here like an asshole and make you listen to it?” Sam asks.

T’Challa’s smile softens a little and it makes Sam’s laughter die in his throat. “I like seeing you enthusiastic,” T’Challa says quietly. “It is…nice.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “Well. Good.”

They’re quiet after that, but it’s not awkward. It’s, for lack of a better word, _nice_. It’s not quite the companionable silence Sam can slip into with Steve, but it feels like it’s on the way there. They’re still getting to know each other, but Sam can tell, whatever else happens, they can definitely be friends.

T’Challa walks him to the door, holding his hand, and Sam can’t get over this almost-teenaged giddiness. He thinks maybe the wine was stronger tonight. They stop in front of the door and T’Challa raises Sam’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss across Sam’s knuckles. “Goodnight,” he says softly.

“Goodnight,” Sam responds, heart pounding. Maybe T’Challa’s finally going to kiss him. But instead T’Challa gives his hand a squeeze and then lets go. Sam thinks for a brief second about taking Barnes’s advice, taking charge and doing it himself—Sam knows how to kiss, and he’s never had _any_ complaints—but he stops himself when he thinks of how nervous T’Challa got when he asked him out that first time. It took him two _months_ to ask Sam out. Maybe he needs more than two dates to kiss.

And besides, there’s probably some laundry list of decorum about royal kisses, and if Sam breaks that he’ll probably get ambushed. He thinks of Shuri asking if T’Challa’s worth it. As T’Challa gives him a last smile before shutting the door, Sam thinks he’s definitely on that path.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam never heard from Shuri after she left him to wander through the jungle alone and possibly get eaten, so he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to meet her somewhere for his prince lessons. Steve gets some serious stink eye when Sam mentions Shuri.

“You could’ve gotten _hurt_ ,” Steve says, like he’s not the same guy who jumped through glass out of an elevator. Sam looks to Barnes for a commiserating eye-roll and instead sees Barnes nodding along, like Steve’s being logical, which Barnes _never_ does.

“T’Challa said she wouldn’t let me get hurt,” Sam says. “So she probably knew I’d be fine.”

He gets four scrunched eyebrows in reply and raises his own. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He wants to float on his high of holding hands with T’Challa, like they’re in fourth grade or something.

“Well, on the bright side, I can train with you guys again,” Sam points out.

“Oh, great,” Barnes says, right on cue. “It’s hard to pace myself without a turtle to lap.”

Steve coughs in a way that means he’s laughing but doesn’t want to take sides. Sam and Barnes get into a mild shin-kicking fight, and Steve loftily pretends he’s more mature than both of them while subtly kicking them both. He’s fooling no one.

The three of them are out running, and Sam can hear Steve coming up fast on the left and Barnes on the right. He’s trying to work out a way to knock them both over when, without warning, a huge _something_ drops from a tree above him and knocks _him_ over instead.

“Sam!” Steve yells. Sam’s on the ground now with his attacker on top of him, digging sharp kicks into his ribs, and he forces himself to go completely still for a second in hopes of confusing whoever—whatever?—it is. Instead, he’s just lying still and getting kicked.

Well, okay. He tried to think tactically, and it didn’t work, so he decides on some good old-fashioned fighting back. He knows Steve and Barnes will be there any second to back him up. He gets his knees under him a bit, enough to change his center of gravity so he can flip over and send his attacker sprawling. Not far, but far enough for him to get to his feet and see…

Shuri.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” Steve, suddenly at Sam’s side, snarls.

“As consort, you must be ready—” She starts to explain.

“No, that’s not good enough,” Steve protests. “You left him _alone_ in unfamiliar territory yesterday and now you’re _attacking_ him—”

“The point is to be surprised—” Shuri says, angry.

“It’s not a terrible strategy,” Barnes allows.

“Admit it, you have it in for Sam,” Steve says.

“I do not have anything for Sam,” she bites back coldly.

“Hey,” Sam says. “Maybe I could have a say in the aftermath of this?”

Steve’s practically vibrating into another dimension, but he takes a deep breath and nods. “Sorry,” he says, looking directly at Sam so no one will get confused about who his apology is meant for. The man can be extremely petty when he wants to be.

Shuri doesn’t even give Sam the chance to ask. “You must be ready in case someone tries to attack you,” she says. “The king has considerable enemies, both in our country and outside.”

“It’s not like I’ve never been attacked,” Sam points out. “And I would think you’re more highly trained than the average political dissident.”

Shuri tips her head. “True,” she admits. “But you can never know who it will be attacking you. It could be a military force.”

“I’m an Avenger,” Sam reminds her.

“Not anymore,” she says, and it steals Sam’s breath away for a second. It’s not like he doesn’t _know_ that. But still, hearing her casually toss that out there stings for a second.

“Doesn’t mean he stopped being a superhero,” Barnes snaps. “He hasn’t stopped training and you know it.”

Shuri’s nostrils are flaring in a way that Sam’s come to find means she’s getting angry. It’s a little sad that he can already identify her anger response so easily.

“Alright,” Sam says, holding up his hands. He manages to keep them from shaking, which is gratifying. He’s pissed as hell, but sitting here screaming at Shuri isn’t going to help anything. He might have to actually talk to T’Challa about the whole situation, loathe as he is to go tattling.

“Come with me,” Shuri demands. “We have much to do.”

“You leave me stranded yesterday and you think I’m going with you again?” Sam asks, temper flaring. So much for self-control.

Shuri pauses for a second. “You found your way back,” she says, but now she sounds different. Almost questioning.

“Yeah, hours later!” Sam tells her. “I wandered around the goddamned jungle all day.”

“He got _blisters_ ,” Steve adds scathingly.

“And he doesn’t heal,” Barnes says, which isn’t actually true. He _does_ heal. Just not in an afternoon like those two.

Shuri swallows. “I am sorry,” she says, and Sam has to admit he’s a little taken aback. He didn’t figure Shuri for the apology type. “I assumed you would have no trouble following the path. It was my understanding that you have excellent navigation skills.”

Sam narrows his eyes, unsure if Shuri’s giving him a little slap in the guise of a compliment. “I’m not normally on the ground,” Sam says cautiously.

Shuri nods once in understanding. “I will remember that,” she promises. Sam feels a little confused and a lot less angry. Shuri sounds pretty genuine. There’s an awkward silence as they all feel out the uneasy truce they’ve come to.

“So…” Sam starts. “What did you have in mind today? Besides jumping out of trees and knocking me over.”

Is that a hint of a smile? Maybe he _is_ winning Shuri over. Slowly but surely, just like his mom always told him. Kill ‘em with kindness.

“Would you like to learn some Wakandan?” Shuri asks.

“Yes,” Sam answers eagerly. That’s something he’d been hoping to pick up anyway, but so far he’s only learned a few greetings, how to ask for the bathroom, and to ask someone not to attack.

They have their priorities.

“It is important you know at least the ceremonial phrases,” Shuri tells him. “In case you are called upon to participate.”

“How likely is that?” Steve asks curiously. Steve is all in for democracy, but he’d admitted—quietly, almost guiltily—that the monarchy in Wakanda seems to be working alright, and he’s interested in learning about it.

Shuri shrugs. “Unless they are married, not at all.”

Sam’s stomach…doesn’t drop. It swoops, maybe. But he doesn’t feel like he needs to sit on the ground with his head between his knees. He wants to roll his eyes at himself. They’ve had _two dates_ and suddenly he can handle talking about marriage?

_We’ll see if that lasts after you sleep with him_ , a mean little voice in his head pipes up. He tells it to shut up and tunes back into the conversation.

“I’m not going anywhere right not except back to our apartment to shower,” Sam tells Shuri. “You got time to wait for that or should we make an actual plan for tomorrow?”

Shuri licks her lips. Sam might be imagining it, but he feels a tiny hint of _unsure_ from her. “I have another meeting to attend in an hour,” she says. “We can reconvene tomorrow.”

“At what time?” Sam presses. He’s done with the cloak-and-dagger routine. He’s pinning Shuri down.

She exhales loudly and Sam refuses to feel bad. It’s perfectly normal and logical to demand a little consideration. She pulls out her phone—the retinal scan isn’t a T’Challa-exclusive, turns out—and consults her calendar.

“How about eleven?” She asks politely. Her eye is twitching slightly.

“Works for me,” Sam answers, like he has anything on his schedule besides _work out_ and _eat too much akara_.

“Very well,” she says. She nods at Steve and Barnes and leaves. She almost does the same melt-away thing T’Challa does. Or used to do. He doesn’t really do that to Sam anymore.

Not that Sam’s smug or anything.

“I don’t like her,” Steve says, in case anyone was doubting that.

“We can tell,” Barnes says dryly.

“I feel like there’s something going on with her,” Sam says as they start walking inside. “I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would make her not like me.”

“You haven’t done _anything_ ,” Steve promises on instinct. Then, after a pause, he adds, “Unless maybe she’s mad about T’Challa.”

“Could be jealous,” Barnes agrees. “Maybe she had her eye on him. Thought being his advisor would get her an in, you know?”

“Not that I think that’s _why_ she became his advisor,” Steve adds quickly, ever conscious of women fighting hard for their power.

“I guess,” Sam says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look at T’Challa like she wants him, though.”

“Maybe she’s really nationalist,” Barnes suggests. “Thinks T’Challa should only be with a Wakandan. The Soviets sure didn’t tolerate any inter-country mingling.”

“Why, did you try some?” Steve teases.

“No, but I killed a few people for it,” Barnes shoots back nonchalantly. Steve scowls at him.

“I think I could see that more than her wanting to be with T’Challa,” Sam says.

“Yeah, she seems very committed to her job,” Steve nods.

“Sam,” Barnes starts, in a voice that means Sam’s going to be rolling his eyes hard in a few seconds. “When you become First King, can I be your royal sniper?”

“Wouldn’t he be second king?” Steve asks. “T’Challa would be first king.”

“They don’t call the president’s spouse Second Lady,” Barnes points out. “Maybe _kingly husband_ would be less confusing.”

“You both heard Shuri call the position prince consort,” Sam says. “And it’s not a _when_ , it’s an _if_. And no.”

Barnes drops his mouth in feigned outrage. “Why not?”

“Well for one thing, I don’t think T’Challa needs a sniper,” Sam starts.

“Everyone needs a sniper,” Steve cuts in, probably more out of loyalty than actual belief in that statement. Barnes nods.

“And anyway, if there’s going to be a royal sniper in _Wakanda_ I’m guessing the royal sniper would be _Wakandan_ ,” Sam finishes.

“Even if the kingly husband isn’t?” Barnes pouts. Sam rolls his eyes and Barnes grins because he won the annoying game. He _always_ wins the annoying game.

The three of them lounge around for the rest of the day—they usually go out and explore and see how many different desserts Steve can eat before he has to cry uncle, but they can’t do that _every_ day—before it’s time for Sam to head to T’Challa’s quarters for date number three.

He splashes on a little aftershave, lightly scented so as to avoid upsetting any super-soldier super-sniffers, and checks himself out a bit in the mirror. He’s still at the stage where he’s putting in _all_ the effort in his appearance, and he’s still at the stage where he’s enjoying that. In a few weeks, if they’re still having dinner every night, he’ll probably still be putting in the effort but be a bit less enthusiastic about.

When Sam walks down the familiar corridor, he hears T’Challa’s voice, but it’s not how Sam’s heard it the whole time they’ve been in Wakanda. It sounds more like when he first encountered T’Challa—angry.

Sam doesn’t know what he’s saying, because whatever argument he’s having is in Wakandan. The woman’s voice that fires back at him sounds familiar, and it only takes a half-second before Sam places Shuri.

Are advisors allowed to argue with the king like that? Whatever they’re saying sounds like it’s getting _heated_. Sam’s just wondering if he should head back to his room when he hears his name and freezes.

“Sam is here,” T’Challa says tersely, striding around the corner. He looks as agitated as he’d sounded. He comes right up to Sam and puts his hands on Sam’s arms, looking into his face worriedly. “Are you alright?” T’Challa asks, voice going soft now.

“Uh.” Sam has no idea what’s going on. “Yeah?”

“Shuri told me she left you in the jungle the other day,” T’Challa reveals, throwing Shuri a glare that she returns with interest.

“Oh,” Sam says. “Yeah, but, you know, it’s alright. I found my way back. You don’t need to punish her or anything.”

“Punish her?” T’Challa asks, forehead wrinkling. “Oh, because she is my advisor? No, of course not,” he dismisses the thought. “But you are sure you are alright?”

He has three blisters and a scratch thanks to a weird prickly bush he got too close to, but he doesn’t think he needs to mention those. “I’m fine,” he promises. His stomach’s getting all swoopy at the way T’Challa’s looking at him and T’Challa’s hands on his arms.

“I apologize,” Shuri says stiffly. “In the interest of honesty I believe I should tell you I also attacked him this morning.”

T’Challa’s hands on Sam’s arms tighten a bit and he blows out a breath. “Shuri,” he says warningly.

“I’m fine,” Sam insists. “She was just trying to make sure I’d be prepared in case some assassin or something tried to get me.”

Sam’s not entirely sure why he’s suddenly defending Shuri so hard. Maybe because they almost came to an understanding this morning. Maybe just because he hates the idea of someone getting fired over him.

“We know you can protect yourself,” T’Challa says. “You are a superhero.” His lips twist up in a little smile, but he’s not making fun of Sam. He looks… _proud_. Sam almost gulps. He has three medals from his time in pararescue and T’Challa’s smile feels better than all of them.

Plus, no one had to die for Sam to get T’Challa’s smile.

That thought brings his mood down a bit. “Thanks,” he manages to say, dodging T’Challa’s eyes a bit. He feels a little weird about Shuri standing there watching them. T’Challa must sense that, because he steps away from Sam and turns to her.

“We are going inside to have dinner now,” he tells her. “I will talk to you later.” He adds something in Wakandan that Shuri echoes. Sam hopes this whole episode isn’t going to make tomorrow hell with her.

T’Challa leads him inside. “I am sorry dinner is not ready yet,” he says. “My head chef’s son graduated today so she is gone. I will have something prepared shortly.”

“No problem,” Sam assures him. Then T’Challa leads him into the kitchen and Sam realizes what T’Challa meant. “You’re going to cook for me?” Sam asks.

“Um,” T’Challa suddenly looks unsure. “I don’t have to—”

“It’s good,” Sam interrupts. “I am…” He stops himself, but then pushes on. T’Challa likes that Sam doesn’t worry so much about propriety. “That’s incredibly hot.”

T’Challa’s ears go a little red. “Oh,” he says with a little laugh. “Well, that is good to know.” He goes to the fridge and starts poking around. Sam takes the liberty of jumping up to sit on the counter. Probably frowned upon in the king’s presence (definitely frowned upon in Sam’s mother’s presence), but it puts him close enough to watch.

“Can I help?” Sam asks.

“I…” T’Challa says. Sam starts to worry he overstepped something, thinks he should jump down off the counter, when T’Challa blurts, “The chef made me food already and I am just going to heat it up.”

There’s silence for a second and T’Challa is practically cringing. Sam cracks up laughing. T’Challa’s shoulders drop.

“You are not disappointed?”

“Man, I’m not mad you’re giving me leftovers.”

T’Challa looks horrified. “They are not—”

“T’Challa, calm down,” Sam says, hooking his feet around T’Challa’s waist and pulling him in close. It’s a calculated risk, but T’Challa comes willingly. Sam’s heart is pounding. They are, he has to note, at perfect kissing height. “It doesn’t have to be fancy, okay? Just relax.”

“Relax,” T’Challa echoes. “Okay.”

He wraps his arms around Sam’s waist and leans into him. Sam focuses on running his hands up and down T’Challa’s back. His solid, muscular back. Damn.

“This is very relaxing,” T’Challa says. He still sounds so formal and it almost makes Sam laugh, but he doesn’t want T’Challa to think he’s laughing _at_ him.

“I’m glad,” Sam says. “I think you spend too much time wound up. Like you got the whole country on your shoulders or something.” He grins a little at his own joke. T’Challa huffs.

“Today was a long day,” he admits. “The White Gorilla cult is unhappy with me. Again.”

“Because your dad banned eating the gorilla meat?” Sam asks.

T’Challa makes a surprised little noise and pulls back. He’s smiling. “Yes,” he says. “You know that?”

“Shuri taught me a little about the gods yesterday,” Sam says. T’Challa’s smile drops.

“Before she left you to wander the jungle by yourself,” he mutters.

“It’s okay,” Sam soothes. “But, uh, does she not like me for some reason?”

T’Challa sighs. “She is very protective.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “I guess it’s good that your advisor is protective of you.”

T’Challa’s forehead wrinkles. “She is not protective as my advisor. Well, she is, but not about this. Sam, Shuri is my sister.”

“ _What_?” Sam asks. “Holy shit, I have talked about having sex with you to your sister.” Then he realizes what he just said. They stare at each other for a minute, both wide-eyed. “Sorry,” he says quickly.

“For what?” T’Challa asks, smirking a little. It reminds Sam of the other day, when T’Challa first propositioned this whole thing. “It is not like I am not thinking about that too, you know.”

Now Sam’s mouth is dry. He doesn’t think they’re going to have sex right _now_ , so his dick’s getting a little confused with T’Challa’s proximity and this conversation.

“But not yet,” Sam checks.

“Not yet,” T’Challa confirms softly. “I am sorry. I thought you knew Shuri was my sister.”

“I didn’t,” Sam says unnecessarily.

T’Challa brushes his fingers across Sam’s cheek. “I have had…bad luck, you could say. With courting. Shuri is suspicious by nature, and to add in the fact that you are an outsider, well. She is worried about my feelings for you.”

“What are your feelings for me?” Sam asks, voice low. He’d like to ask about the bad luck thing, but his brain can only handle so much right now. He can’t look away from T’Challa’s face, like maybe one of the Black Panther’s powers is some sort of super eye-contact. He has an idea of T’Challa’s feelings for him, of course. The man asked him, very formally and very awkwardly, to date him, so it’s not like he thinks Sam’s disgusting. But still.

T’Challa’s blushing a little, but he keeps the eye contact. “I feel strongly for you,” he says, which isn’t completely an answer but is certainly good enough for Sam.

“I feel pretty strongly for you, too,” Sam breathes. And then he throws the _waiting_ idea to the wind and leans in to kiss T’Challa.

It’s not the most passionate kiss Sam’s ever had. T’Challa inhales sharply and puts a hand to Sam’s face, letting the other curl around his hip. Sam’s got two fistfuls of T’Challa’s suit jacket. There’s not even any tongue.

But Sam could swear there are fireworks going off behind them. It’s that kind of first kiss. Perfect and everything he’d hoped it would be.

They break apart and rest their foreheads together. T’Challa still has his eyes closed, but he’s smiling, and it makes Sam smile.

“Thank you,” T’Challa said. “I have been wanting that, but I was a bit scared.”

“Shouldn’t _I_ be afraid of you?” Sam asks. “I mean, cats eat birds.”

T’Challa pulls back and opens his eyes, smile morphing into a look that’s completely disgruntled. “I cannot believe you just said that,” he says. He starts to laugh and Sam can’t help but laugh too. “That was a horrible joke.”

“That was an awesome joke,” Sam argues, tugging him back in. “Got you to laugh.”

“Because it was so bad,” T’Challa says. He’s still snickering, though, so Sam counts it as a win. They stay like that for a second, heads resting together, and then T’Challa’s stomach rumbles loud enough to probably be heard in the States. Sam laughs again.

“That sounded like Steve’s stomach,” he says. Then he stops. “Wait. Superhuman. You probably got a metabolism like Steve’s, don’t you?”

“I do not know what his metabolism is like,” T’Challa says. “But it is necessary for me to eat about every four hours.”

“Jesus, I’m keeping you from eating. You about to pass out?”

“No,” T’Challa promises, smiling. “But my knees are feeling a bit weak.”

“And you criticize _my_ jokes?” Sam mutters, getting down from the counter and hip-checking T’Challa. “Go sit down,” he orders. “Save your delicate strength. You can laugh at me trying to figure out your space microwave.”

T’Challa rolls his eyes. “Our technology does not come from space.” He pulls out his phone and puts on some Four Tops.

“Might as well, for me.”

“It is the same microwave that is in your quarters,” T’Challa points out. “I hope by now you have figured that out.”

“No,” Sam lies, straight-faced. “We just go out to the street vendors every day.”

T’Challa’s eyes practically bug out before he realizes Sam’s pulling his leg. He huffs and shrugs off his jacket, dropping it onto a chair. Then he loosens his tie. Sam’s heart is in his throat. He’s fixing them something to eat while T’Challa gets comfortable. It’s so _domestic_ , and that should be weird because it’s too _soon_ , they barely know each other.

But it doesn’t feel weird. It feels good. Right.

Sam sucks in a breath. Oh, shit. He’s in deep.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam practically floats home. They finally kissed. They’d kissed quite a bit, actually. After they’d eaten, so T’Challa’s stomach would stop trying to butt into the conversation, they’d killed the conversation themselves and made out on the couch a bit.

It was kind of nice, making out without thinking about doing more. Sam likes kissing. And T’Challa is _very good_ at kissing.

“You had sex!” Barnes crows when Sam walks in.

“No,” Sam says. “But we did make out.”

“Sam!” Steve cries, excited. “That’s great! Was it great?”

“It was great,” Sam confirms, trying to play it cool but failing pretty abysmally, judging by the way Steve smiles at him and Barnes rolls his eyes. “I made dinner and he took off his tie.”

“And that’s better than sex?” Barnes asks skeptically. “Buddy, you have been doing it wrong.”

Steve swats at him. “Shut up, Buck. So are you officially dating? Exclusively? Is that different than courting?” Steve is practically resting his chin in his hands. He looks like an adorable little child and Sam is so _happy_ about everything. It makes him even fonder. He even almost likes Barnes right at this moment.

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, I don’t think he’s dating anyone else. And you know I’m not.”

“Are you gonna tell your mom?” Barnes asks, because he just loves ruining happiness. Sam feels like someone just doused him in cold water. He emails his mom, because T’Challa had ensured them all, after they first got to Wakanda, that emails were secure and encrypted and no one would be able to track them. But Sam can’t call his mom. He can Skype his family, but not for any longer than twenty minutes, which is almost not even worth it. He feels _more_ homesick after he sees his mother holding back tears.

“Sorry,” Barnes mutters.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. There’s an awkward silence.

“Well, you can email her,” Steve reminds him, voice full of false cheer. “And give her most of the details in an email and then have a video call and tell her the best parts.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “That’s a great idea. I’m gonna go in my room and do that right now.”

He hears the beginning of a furious whispered fight behind him, but he ignores it. He’s still happy about his date with T’Challa, but it’s muted now. He’s never been serious about someone without his mother meeting them. Hell, she sent Riley care packages almost more than she sent _Sam_ care packages. But the likelihood of her ever meeting T’Challa…

T’Challa could go to the U.S. But Sam couldn’t go with him. Not right now. Maybe not for years.

_Maybe not ever_ , a voice in his head reminds him. Sam lets out a shaky breath. His family could come to Wakanda. But they’re being watched. They had been, ever since Sam strapped his wings back on to help Steve with the hellicarriers, but now he knows every government agency in the country is keeping tabs on them.

He opens his computer and sits there with his jaw clenched for a minute. How does he even drop this bomb? _Hey mom, hope everything’s great, how’s the book club and by the way I’m dating the king of Wakanda and it’s already semi-serious and he’s already kinda mentioned marriage being his endgame here and it didn’t send me running for the hills._

Using email for _that_ information seems a bit…harsh. But it’s not like he can keep this from his mother. She’ll find out. Even if he and T’Challa ended things tomorrow, she’d find out.

And Sam doesn’t _want_ to end things with T’Challa tomorrow. Not for the foreseeable future, that’s for sure. He sighs. Maybe he’ll sleep on it. A good night’s sleep never hurts.

There’s a knock on his door and he can tell it’s Steve. “Yeah, it’s open,” he says.

Steve opens the door and leans in the doorway. It’s his _I’m supportive and open and ready to be understanding_ stance. “You alright?” He asks, forehead wrinkling in concern. “Buck didn’t mean to bring the mood down. He just knows you’re close with your mom.”

“I know,” Sam says. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“So…are you alright?” Steve repeats.

Sam sighs again. “I don’t know. How do I tell my mom she might never see me again?”

“Whoa, what?” Steve asks. “Why wouldn’t she ever see you again?”

“Well, until the U.S. government decides I’m _not_ a criminal, I can’t go home. And until they stop watching my family for signs of me contacting them, they can’t come here. An intensely isolationist country suddenly letting a family from Virginia come visit? Might be suspicious.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, misery-voice firmly in place. “This is all—”

“Dude, don’t even go there,” Sam cuts him off sharply. “I’m a big boy. I make my own decisions. I do what I think is right.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Sam grouses good-naturedly.

“Sorry,” Steve says again, laughing this time. Sam throws a pillow at him. “Well,” Steve says. “Are you going to bed? Buck and I were going to watch that weird Japanese game show that comes in through the hacked feeds and I know you love when they throw pie in people’s faces.”

Sam laughs. “I do love that. I think we could raise a lot of money for charity if we did a pie-in-the-face with you.”

Steve puts on his best _American hero_ face. “Who would want to throw pie at me? I’m Captain America.”

“I would!” Barnes calls from the other room. “You guys know I can hear your whole conversation, right?”

“Damn that super hearing,” Sam says. “Yeah, I’ll come watch with you guys.”

“I get to sit in the middle!” Barnes yells. “Called it. Steve, you’re on the end.”

“No!” Steve immediately protests. “You eat all the popcorn when it’s your job to hold it!”

Sam shakes his head a little as he follows a whiny supersoldier out to get closer to another whiny supersoldier and sit next to them on the couch while they pretend not to cuddle. He’s got to start spending more time in T’Challa’s private quarters.

 

Sam can’t stop staring at Shuri the next day, trying to see similarities with her and T’Challa. Maybe around the chin? She doesn’t have T’Challa’s jawline, obviously. He needs to see them side-by-side again, now that he knows.

“—and you are not listening to me,” Shuri says sharply. Sam snaps out of it.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just…didn’t know you and T’Challa were brother and sister.”

She stiffens a little. “It was never a secret.”

“No, I know,” Sam placates quickly.

“Everyone in Wakanda knows,” she goes on. “We do not make a point of mentioning it because of that.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Sam says, getting a little impatient now. Why won’t she just let him talk? “I’m just saying, it knocked me for a loop a little bit.”

She doesn’t say anything for a minute, assessing him. “Does it make a difference?”

That gives him pause. It explains a few things, for sure. Takes away any lingering worries he had that Shuri might hate him because she wants T’Challa for herself. Gives him a few _new_ worries because he knows firsthand there is _no one_ harder—or more important—to win over than the siblings.

“No,” he finally admits. “It’s just nice to know he’s got someone watching his back who cares about him for him and not because he’s the king.”

Shuri tilts her head a little. “Are you saying that because you love my brother or because you are trying to get on my good side?”

Sam chokes a little on _love_. Sure, he’s not running away from the marriage idea, but still. It’s been _three days._ “I care about your brother,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m ready to say…anything else than that. But I think he’s kind and smart and deserves people caring about him for more than his name or his title.”

She nods. “Alright. Do you remember any of the vocabulary words I taught you at the beginning of this lesson?”

“Uh…” Sam hasn’t been paying the best attention, even as excited as he is to learn Wakandan. Shuri rolls her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, sighing. “We will start again.”

He hadn’t been lying to get on her good side. But he thinks he might’ve ended up there anyway.

They’re halfway through a history lesson—“It is important for you to know the historical events with cultural significance”—when T’Challa comes out of the palace. Sam’s stomach flutters and he knows his face lights up like a damn lantern. He can’t help it.

T’Challa tips his head at them, a little smile playing on his lips as he meets Sam’s eyes. “Hello,” he calls as he comes closer. “It is nice to see you.”

“Hi,” Sam says, hoping he doesn’t sound completely breathless.

“Your Highness,” Shuri says, tipping her head. Sam’s pretty sure she’s laughing at him. That’s fine. He can take it.

“I must go to meet with the White Gorilla tribe,” T’Challa says. A wrinkle immediately takes up residence between Shuri’s eyebrows.

“This was not planned in advance,” she says.

“No,” T’Challa agrees. “But they are willing to meet with me first thing tomorrow morning. It is important. Hopefully we can find some common ground.”

“Who is going with you?” Shuri asks.

“Okoye,” T’Challa says. After a pause he adds, almost reluctantly, “And Nakia.”

Shuri scoffs. “Nakia,” she mutters.

“She is well-trained,” T’Challa says, a hint of warning in his voice. 

“She is distracted,” Shuri counters. She turns to Sam with a smirk on her face. “She is in love with him.”

Sam’s unprepared for the intense and ugly jealousy that rises up in his chest. Holy shit, he wants to find this Nakia girl and fight her. Not that he’d win, because if she’s a Dora Milaje high up enough to be in T’Challa’s security detail she could rip him to shreds. But he can feel his lip curling without his brain’s consent.

Fucking Shuri is _definitely_ laughing at him now.

T’Challa gives her a chilling look and okay, yeah, Sam can totally tell they’re siblings now. “She is young,” T’Challa says. “She grew up with stories of the old traditions. She will grow out of it.”

“The old traditions?” Sam asks.

“The Dora Milaje used to be wives-in-training,” T’Challa says.

“For the king,” Shuri adds helpfully, grinning far too wide. Sam bites his tongue to keep himself in check. Maybe all his ideas about concubines weren’t too far off after all.

“That has not been the case for decades,” T’Challa says. “Our mother was not Dora Milaje. That tradition is firmly in the past.”

Sam nods, trying to look like someone who’s absolutely keeping his cool and not about to give Bruce Banner a run for his money in the rage-monster department. T’Challa pretty clearly isn’t interested in Nakia. There’s no reason for Sam to suddenly be wondering if Steve and Barnes would be his backup.

It’s not a real question. He knows they would.

“I am sorry,” T’Challa says, turning to Sam now and practically blocking Shuri out with his shoulder. Shuri suddenly gets very interested in the grass they’re sitting in. “I must leave within the hour. We will not be able to have dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” Sam says. “Well, you gotta do what you gotta do. I’ll still be here when you get back.” He sort of meant that last part as a joke, but T’Challa looks right into his eyes.

“Will you?” He asks seriously. Sam all but gulps.

“Yeah,” he says, definitely breathless now. “I’ll be here.” He feels like he’s in a Jane Austen novel. And not as the dashing gentleman. That’s alright, though. Sam’s masculinity is strong enough to admit that Elizabeth Bennet was a gift to humanity.

T’Challa’s eyes dart around and then he says quietly, “Will you come to my private quarters in twenty minutes? I would like to say goodbye to you.” He gestures to the air around them. “Inside.”

“Absolutely,” Sam says, heart starting to hammer. “Yeah, twenty minutes. Uh-huh.”

T’Challa grins a little. “Okay. I will see you then.” He turns to Shuri and they speak in Wakandan for a minute, hushed. Sam takes his turn pretending the ground is really interesting. Not that he can understand anything they’re saying anyway. Shuri’s taught him seven new words, but they’re all things like “man” and “woman” and “mother” and “father.” Even if they were using those words, they’re talking so damn fast Sam would never know anyway.

“Alright,” T’Challa finally says. “I am not sure if I will be back tomorrow night or if I will stay an extra day. I will call and let you know.”

Sam jolts a little when he realizes T’Challa’s talking to him. “Okay,” he says. “That sounds good.”

“Safe travels, brother,” Shuri says, and T’Challa nods before walking off. Shuri watches his back for a minute, frowning, and Sam starts to feel uneasy.

“Are you worried about that?” He asks. “Him going there?”

She doesn’t say anything for a minute and Sam worries he crossed a line. “Yes,” she finally says. “But he will be fine.”

“Is it dangerous?” Sam asks, getting worried now himself. But Shuri smiles.

“You do not need to be afraid for his safety,” she assures him. “T’Challa is the Black Panther. He will be fine.”

“But you’re afraid he won’t be fine,” Sam points out. She purses her lips.

“It is not his physical safety I am worried about,” she admits quietly.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

Shuri’s eyes snap back to Sam and she shakes her head. “Never mind,” she says. “Why don’t you go inside now and get ready to say your goodbyes to him? We will pick up tomorrow.”

Sam doesn’t bother asking if she’s sure. She’s not the kind of person who appreciates being second-guessed. “Alright,” he agrees. “See you tomorrow.”

Steve and Barnes aren’t in the apartment when Sam gets there, and he feels guiltily happy about that. He needs a minute to process everything. T’Challa is strong, obviously. He’d all but outmatched Barnes with the metal arm while he was in full Terminator-mode. As far as Sam knows, Wakanda isn’t hiding any other super-people. So no one will be able to hurt him.

But Shuri was definitely worried. He doesn’t know what about, though, and it’s bugging him. He sighs and goes to the bathroom to make sure his hair looks presentable and he doesn’t have any plantain in his teeth.

He gets to T’Challa’s door just in time for T’Challa to open it. “Hello, Sam,” T’Challa says. “Please come in.”

It feels a little formal, and a little sweat breaks out down Sam’s back. Being formal after kissing is never a good thing.

“I am sorry,” T’Challa starts out, and Sam’s stomach drops. Holy shit. T’Challa’s cutting this whole thing off. “I did not know they would call me away right now. I am sorry to cancel dinner without more warning.”

Sam’s heart is pounding so hard it takes him a second to process what T’Challa’s saying, and then he laughs shakily in relief. “Shit, dude,” he says. “You gave me a heart attack. I thought you didn’t want to see me again.”

T’Challa’s eyes go wide. “No, Sam, that is not at _all_ what I am saying.” He bites his lip and takes a step closer. His hands hover for a second over Sam’s hips before he sets them down, glancing up to make sure Sam’s okay with it. Sam could almost burst with affection for him. “I enjoy our time together very much.”

Sam blows out a breath. “See, that, the formal talking thing is what made me think you were done.”

T’Challa frowns. “I do not understand.”

“Sometimes you just sound…stiff. Like you’re not comfortable.”

T’Challa blinks. “English is not my first language,” he points out. “When I am not around English speakers, I do not speak it. I am fluent, of course, but sometimes the…slang escapes me. I apologize if that makes you uncomfortable.”

Now Sam feels like the biggest asshole on earth. “No, it’s not your fault,” he says. “T’Challa, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think of that.”

T’Challa’s not quite meeting his eyes, biting his lip, and Sam wants to smack himself. “I can work on it,” T’Challa promises.

“T’Challa,” Sam says firmly, waiting until T’Challa will look him in the eye. “You don’t need to work on it. I’m working on learning Wakandan, okay? Maybe someday you’ll be complaining about my shitty Wakandan.”

That gets a laugh out of T’Challa and Sam feels like a weight comes off his shoulders. “I do not think I will ever complain about hearing you speak Wakandan,” he says.

“Yeah?” Sam asks.

T’Challa licks his lips. “It will be…very hot,” he says, and it makes Sam burst out with a little laugh.

“Well, guess I better get learning then,” he says.

“Yes,” T’Challa agrees, smiling wide. “You should.” He just looks at Sam for a minute, and then he leans in and kisses him. “I hope I will be back tomorrow night,” he says. “Because I do not want to be apart from you longer.”

Sam huffs. “So corny,” he says, even though he’s totally blushing.

He’ll deny it if anyone asks, and T’Challa will probably keep his secret.

“But Sam,” T’Challa says innocently. “Birds like corn, not cats.”

“Oh my God,” Sam says. “Is this payback?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says smugly. “And it was good.”

“No, it sure as hell was not,” Sam argues. “That was terrible.”

“I thought it was pretty funny.”

“You have bad taste.”

“What does that say about you?” T’Challa points out.

“Alright, looks like I’m gonna have to shut you up, huh?” Sam asks. “Come here.” He kisses T’Challa so he’ll stop using his mouth to make bad jokes. And then they…keep kissing. For a while. Sam can’t help it if he tugs at T’Challa’s tie and loosens it. And maybe T’Challa can’t help it if he slips his hand up under Sam’s shirt and presses it flat against his stomach. Sam definitely can’t help it when he tugs T’Challa’s jacket off his shoulders.

A knock at the door makes them both jump. A woman says something in Wakandan. Sam’s pretty sure it’s some honorific, because he’s heard people say it a lot around T’Challa. T’Challa clears his throat and answers her, still in Wakandan.

“What did you say?” Sam whispers.

“I told her I’d be out in a minute,” T’Challa whispers back. He winces apologetically. “I must go.”

Sam rests his forehead against T’Challa’s. “You need me to sneak out the window or something?”

T’Challa barks out a surprised laugh. “No, why would you do that?”

“So no one sees me,” Sam says. “You want your staff knowing you’re courting someone?”

“My staff will never say a word,” T’Challa promises. “The news of us courting will not get out until we are ready for it.”

A little thrill runs down Sam’s back. “Okay,” he says. He leans in and gives T’Challa one last kiss, chaste this time. Then he tightens T’Challa’s tie back up for him and brushes the shoulders of his jacket. “Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you,” T’Challa says. “I will see you in a few days.”

T’Challa takes his hand as they cross the room and gives it a squeeze before releasing it before he opens the door. The woman in the hallway looks at Sam for a second but, just as T’Challa said, doesn’t say a word.

“Goodbye,” T’Challa says, back to being more formal. But Sam doesn’t mind so much now. He knows T’Challa is pretty comfortable with him. And he’ll only get _more_ comfortable, because neither of them are going anywhere, not right now. Not for a while.

Sam shivers a little as he watches T’Challa walk away. No way around it now—he’s definitely got to tell his mother.


	5. Chapter 5

Shuri corners Sam on his way home from T’Challa’s quarters. “You will have dinner with me tonight,” she tells him.

“No offense, but you’re not the sibling I’m trying to get with,” he teases. She scowls at him.

“We have much work to do. I assume you will be useless the rest of the afternoon.”

“What?” Sam asks, offended. “Why?”

She waves a hand around. “T’Challa has just left. You will be pining.”

Sam’s mouth drops open a little. “I’m not _pining_ ,” he protests, even though his shoulders feel a little heavy and slumped.

Shuri rolls her eyes. “Believe it or not, I have more to my life than spending time with you. I will meet you outside on the steps for dinner. We have an important appointment.”

She leaves him there, frowning. How could they have an appointment if she didn’t even know he’d be free until half an hour ago? Sam sighs. Whatever. He gets home and finds Steve and Barnes standing a suspicious distance apart in the kitchen. As if they’d sprung apart at the sound of the locks disengaging.

He levels them both with a stink eye. “You are not having sex while I’m here.”

“Someone should,” Barnes mutters. Steve elbows him.

“You’re back early,” he says, feigning innocence. Sam rolls his eyes.

“T’Challa had to leave for a meeting with the White Gorilla tribe, so my training with Shuri got cut short so I could—” He hesitates. “Say goodbye.”

“Have a quickie,” Barnes suggests at the same time. He sounds far too hopeful. Sam glares at him, and then glares at Steve, too, when he sees the smirk on his face.

“No,” he says.

Barnes sighs. “You have that man wanting to ravish you and you’re holding out?”

“I’m not the one holding out,” Sam blurts before he can stop to think.

“Oh, fuck, that’s hot,” Barnes says.

“How on _earth_ is T’Challa saying no to _you_?” Steve asks, then goes bright red as his brain catches up with his mouth. There’s a beat of awkward silence while everyone processes what everyone else just said.

“Um.” Steve clears his throat. “But, you know, waiting can be good.”

“We waited twenty years,” Barnes agrees.

“It doesn’t count as waiting if you were waiting to hit puberty,” Sam says scathingly. “I am not playing this game where you pretend to bitch about your relationship when you’re really just bragging.”

Barnes looks slightly guilty, which is actually progress.

“No, but Sam, really,” Steve tries to get the conversation back on track. “You know how if you jump to the physical parts too quick sometimes the whole thing fizzles out?”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says dryly, remembering Steve’s tear-streaked face against his. “I sure do.” Steve blushes again and Barnes cracks up laughing. But Sam is a good friend, so he bails Steve out. “That is true, though. And even though I really like him…it’s okay. The waiting.”

“T’Challa doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to jump into bed,” Steve says. “At least not if he cares about someone.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, unable to hold back the little smile that takes over his lips.

“You can have dinner with us,” Barnes says graciously. “Since you don’t got a date. I’ll even fend for myself and you two can go have your bro-time.”

“Bro-time,” Steve echoes incredulously.

Sam is a little bit touched, if he’s being completely honest. The last month with Barnes awake full-time has been a bit of an adjustment. Since he’s known Steve, Sam’s used to having him accessible, as long as he’s not crime-fighting. And he _has_ missed their bro-time, even if they still see each other every day. It’s different with Steve taking little breaks to just smile at Barnes’s existence, no matter how happy Sam is for them.

He and Barnes give each other shit, but Sam can’t help but like the guy.

“Thanks, man,” he says, heartfelt. Then he remembers Shuri. “Oh. I can’t.”

“You can’t?” Steve asks, voice carefully neutral in that way that means he’s hiding emotions.

“You have one friend besides us,” Barnes says. “What could you be possibly be doing?”

“Shuri’s got something for me during dinner.”

“But you already had your prince lessons today,” Steve says, still blank of inflection.

“I know, but we didn’t get through the whole thing, and this is something she said we needed to do for dinner.” Sam shrugs, trying not to let guilt eat at him. It’s not like he’s ditching them. He _has_ to do this. “But we can hang out now.”

Barnes grumbles a little about that, because apparently these two lovebirds have been sneaking home for some afternoon-delight for who knows how long, but when Steve looks directly at him he rolls his eyes, smiling a little, and says, “I’m gonna hit the market. Any requests for dinner?” He exaggerates a sneer at Sam. “For us peasants not eating with royalty.”

“Aw, Buck, you know you’ll always be royalty in my heart,” Steve says, overly sweet. Barnes flips him off as he walks out the door.

“You wanna play Mario Kart?” Sam asks. Steve snorts.

“You mean do I want kick your ass at Mario Kart?”

“That’s definitely not what I mean,” Sam shoots back. “What have you _ever_ kicked my ass?”

“I could kick your ass right now,” Steve show-boats, like he’d ever even consider it. Sam just laughs and goes to set up the controllers. The gaming console is a little different here, but it’s easy enough to set up, considering it’s made for children.

They play in relative silence for a while, only talking to goad and curse at each other. After Steve slips off Rainbow Road for the fourth time, he sets down his controller.

“So,” he says, all would-be casual if Sam didn’t know him as well as he does.

“So,” Sam echoes, raising his eyebrows.

“Um. I don’t want this to sound negative.”

Now Sam’s wary. “Okay?”

“I’m just kinda…” Steve trails off and swallows. “You and T’Challa are kind of moving fast.”

Sam absorbs that for a second. “In what way?”

“You just seem like you’re getting really attached already,” Steve says. “And he’s a good guy, I know he is, he’s probably the most compassionate man I’ve ever met, but…” He licks his lips. “Sam, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Sam blinks. This isn’t really what he expected. Though he hadn’t known _what_ to expect so he supposes it’s not really unexpected, either.

“You think he’s going to change his mind and not want me anymore?” Sam doesn’t bother trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. Steve’s his best friend, and this feels like shit.

“No!” Steve insists. “No, Sam, I’m just worried he’ll choose duty over you, despite his feelings for you.”

“So you still don’t think I’ll be important enough,” Sam points out.

“I know a little about picking duty over someone you love,” Steve says softly. “And it has nothing to do with not thinking they’re important enough.”

Sam feels a little abashed, thinking about everything Steve’s told him about listening to Peggy’s voice as the plane went down. “So you think the choice is going to come up?”

“He’s a king, Sam. The choice always comes up. And you don’t ever deserve to be second best. Not ever.”

They’re not meeting each other’s eyes now, because this is getting dangerously close to Talking About It, which they’ve never done aside from Sam telling Steve they weren’t going to do anything more than that one sloppy kiss and Steve agreeing.

“What if he chooses me over duty?” Sam asks.

Steve sighs. “Sam, you wouldn’t let him do that. You’d never forgive yourself.”

It’s not wrong. Sam’s not arrogant enough to think he’s more important than an entire country of people. And he certainly knows T’Challa wouldn’t put his own happiness over the wellbeing of the country—T’Challa would be alone forever if he thought the country needed it.

Sam swallows hard. “So…you think I should break this off?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. And I like that you’re happy. I’m just scared.”

“You’re scared,” Sam echoes. “About _my_ relationship.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry if that’s selfish. I owe T’Challa more than I could ever pay off, for helping Buck. But you’re more important.”

Sam smiles a little. “Thanks, man.” He slumps back against the couch. “This whole thing is moving fast.”

“Faster than you want?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “It’s been less than a week.”

“Sometimes that’s a good sign.”

“Are you trying to talk me into or out of this relationship?” Sam teases. But Steve gets all serious and earnest.

“I’m not trying to talk you into anything,” he promises. “I’m just saying…whatever happens, I’m on your left. If that means being your best man, fine. If that means kicking T’Challa’s ass, well, I’ll do that, too.”

Sam cracks up laughing. “You’re feeling pretty full of your superpowers tonight. All this talk of kicking asses. We need to find you something to punch pretty soon.” He slings an arm around Steve’s neck and gives him a squeeze. “But thanks. It’s good to hear.”

“I mean it,” Steve insists. Sam gives him a noogie just because he can. Steve yelps and twists away, but Sam has a big brother; he knows how to give a good noogie. Barnes comes in the front door and puts down the shopping bag he’s holding so he can put his hand on his hip.

“Well, shit, if you needed me to be gone longer you should’ve said. And anyway, that’s rude, leaving me out like that.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Shut up, asshole. We’re not doing that.”

“Shame,” Barnes says.

Sam snorts. “Please. Haven’t we already established that I’m not leaving a _king_ for your sorry asses?”

“You won in Mario Kart a bunch of times, huh?” Barnes asks, unpacking the food he bought. “Always makes you real smug.”

“You’re just whining ‘cause you always lose,” Sam shoots back.

“Oh, sure, make fun of the guy with one arm,” Barnes says. Steve cracks up laughing and Barnes laughs a little too, and Sam can tell he missed an inside joke. He narrows his eyes.

“Sorry,” Steve says. “But—well, last night Buck and I were—well, and he said having one arm wouldn’t slow him down any and—”

“Man, shut the hell up,” Sam complains.

“Yeah, Steve, don’t taunt him about sex when he’s not having any.”

“Get over here and pick up the damn controller,” Sam orders. “Time for me to teach you some manners.”

Sam wins four more times. Barnes doesn’t learn any new manners, but the point is that Sam won. He makes sure they both remember that.

 

Sam doesn’t know what he’s supposed to wear to dinner with Shuri. She said it was an important appointment, so he figures he should dress nicely, but he’s also a tad confused about Shuri’s idea of important. He doesn’t want to show up in a tux if they’re going to back to that jungle clearing.

In the end, he goes with a button down and some slacks, but ditches the tie. It’s too damn hot for a tie. He meets Shuri in front of the dining hall and she leads him away without a word. He rolls his eyes, but he obediently follows her. He’s starting to feel like her lack of communication has less to do with animosity and more to do with her personality in general.

There’s a car waiting outside, and Sam balks. Maybe it’s some natural suspiciousness or maybe it’s the whole underwater-prison ordeal he just went through, but he stops and gives Shuri a look.

“Where are we going?” He asks.

“To our appointment,” she says.

“Nope. Not getting in a government car with tinted windows until you tell me where it’s heading.”

She looks a little surprised and glances at the car. “We are going to the diplomatic training facility. It is only six miles away. We will not be far.”

Sam mulls it over, then nods and follows her to the car. “I don’t just get in strange cars with strange women,” he says, trying to make his tone light and teasing. Shuri raises her eyebrows.

“How often do any women invite you into cars?”

Sam can’t help but laugh a little. “That was a little cold.”

She shrugs, but Sam thinks she _might_ be smiling. He decides she is, and he decides he’s counting it as a win.

The diplomatic training facility looks like a college. There’s a cluster of buildings to one side and, judging by the decorations hanging in the windows, dorms on the other side.

“Do people live here?” Sam asks.

“Yes, it is a boarding school,” Shuri says. “The students here are connected to the government in some way. If they do not have familial connections, they must pass a civil service exam to get in.”

“They have to take the test before they get the training?” Sam asks skeptically. Shuri huffs.

“Are all Americans so distrustful of government?”

“Not all,” Sam says dryly.

“It is a pre-placement test,” Shuri explains. “More to show their temperament and logic.”

“How old do they have to be to come here?”

Shuri looks puzzled for a minute. “They come here when it is time for them to start school.”

Sam’s mouth drops open in surprise. “Like, they got five-year-olds in boarding school?”

“I came when I was six,” Shuri reveals.

“T’Challa never told me he went to boarding school,” Sam comments as the car stops.

“That is because _he_ did not go to boarding school,” Shuri says, tightness around her eyes. She gets out of the car and Sam sighs a little.

“Does she hate everyone or just me?” He asks the driver.

“Just you,” the driver tells him cheerfully.

Sam grumbles a little as he gets out of the car to catch up to Shuri. He can hear the rumble of high-pitched child voices inside.

“The students are at dinner,” Shuri tells him. “We will be eating with them, and then we will join them for their evening lesson.”

“How many hours of lessons do they have every day?”

“Four hours in the classroom and two hours of physical training. There is a different training facility for the Dora Milaje.”

Sam’s not sure he wants a tour of that training facility. There’s probably some kind of fight test you have to do to get in there. Children chorus out in Wakandan as they enter the room. Sam catches _hello_ and Shiri, so he gets the gist of it.

“They know you,” he says, surprised. Shuri gives him a look.

“I teach the evening lesson.” Then she adds, smirking a little, “And one third of the children in this room are part of the royal family.”

Sam curbs the instinct to swear in surprise. There are probably sixty kids in this room. How big is the royal family?

“But not siblings, right?” Sam asks. “It’s just you and T’Challa.”

“Yes,” Shuri agrees. “We do not have any other siblings. Our mother died when I was six.”

Six. The same time she came to live here. Sam knows better than to ask if that’s a coincidence, but he’s pretty sure it’s not. He shelves that for later. They sit at a table with some other teachers, who are all speaking Wakandan. Sam feels pretty out of place, and he resolves to learn Wakandan faster.

“You are American?” The man next to him asks politely.

“I am,” Sam says, grateful to understand something. “I’m from Washington, D.C.”

“Where the President of the United States lives,” the man notes. “Do you know him?”

“Uh, no,” Sam admits. “My friend Rhodey does, though. He saved his life once.”

“James Rhodes!” The man exclaims. “Iron Patriot! We have his action figure.”

“You don’t have the Falcon action figure?” Sam asks, firmly telling himself not to be disappointed and/or rude about it. The man tips his head.

“No,” he says. “They sold out in the American stores too quickly.”

Sam can handle that. “Well, I’ll see what I can do,” he promises. A sudden thought crosses his mind. “Are there Black Panther action figures around here?”

The man gives him a look like he’s asked something scandalous. “Why would we make an action figure out of our king? That would be disrespect.”

“Oh,” Sam says. He hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Secretly, he’s pretty sure T’Challa wouldn’t feel disrespected by it. It’s a pretty awesome feeling. “So I guess no one dresses up as the Black Panther for Halloween, either?”

Now the man just looks like he wants to move his chair away from Sam. “Americans,” he mutters.

Dinner finishes up and they all head into a large room. “The other lessons are broken up by age,” Shuri tells him. “But the evening lesson is for everyone.”

She calls the children to attention by clapping her hands one time. The kids immediately fall silent. She says something and they all repeat it back to her. The entire lesson goes on in Wakandan. Sam catches a few words—here and there he hears words he recognizes, things like _king_ and _Wakanda_ , and he hears T’Challa’s and T’Chaka’s names—so he figures it must be some kind of history lesson or something.

The children are completely silent through the entire thing, except at one part, which must be getting intense judging by everyone’s faces, when one tiny little boy jumps to his feet and starts exclaiming loudly.

Shuri waits for him to stop shouting and then speaks to him, inclining her head. He bows his head and nods, sitting back down. Sam’s dying to know what’s going on. He’s not sure what the point of bringing him here was when he can’t understand anything that’s going on.

As they’re leaving, he points this out to Shuri. She nods. “It was a lesson about their duty to the king and to our country,” she says. “The point was for you to see how seriously they take their studies, even as children.”

“What was that outburst from the little guy?” Sam asks. Shuri presses her lips together.

“I was speaking of my father’s death,” she says quietly. “He was upset about the Sokovian seeking revenge on the Avengers and killing T'Chaka.”

Sam swallows. “They know it wasn’t Barnes.”

“It was important to my brother that everyone know the truth,” Shuri says. “Ignorance only breeds hate and discord.”

“He’s a pretty good guy,” Sam says, lips curling up into a fond smile. Shuri looks at him for a long moment, long enough for his smile to fade uncomfortably.

“He is,” she agrees. “And I am glad you know that. But do not mistake his goodness to his people as goodness for you.”

“Wha—I wasn’t—”

The car stops and Shuri gets out, leaving Sam even more bewildered than when they left. The driver is laughing at him and Sam makes a face before getting out of the car. Shuri’s long gone. Sam sighs and heads home.

He’s just stretched out in bed when his phone buzzes. There are only about four people who have this number and two of them are in the next room over, so he doesn’t get calls often. But he smiles when he sees it’s T’Challa.

“Hi,” he says. “You got there safe?”

“I did,” T’Challa confirms, voice low. Sam feels the tight muscles in his neck relax just from hearing T’Challa’s voice. That’s kind of weird, maybe. Maybe not. His voice is soothing. “How are things going there?”

“Fine, if I could stop putting my damn foot in my mouth with your sister,” Sam says, frustrated. T’Challa laughs in his ear.

“Please let me know if you figure out how to do that,” he jokes. “I have known her thirty years and have not mastered it.”

“So she’s not just touchy with me?” Sam asks, feeling desperate and needy. T’Challa makes a considering hum.

“She is touchier with you than most others,” he admits. “But it is not because of you personally. You are an outsider and Shuri is distrustful.”

Sam sighs. “Yeah. I guess I gotta work harder to earn her trust.”

“It is important to you?” T’Challa asks.

“She’s your sister,” Sam says without really thinking. “Of course it’s important to me.”

There’s a beat of silence and Sam wonders if that was too much, too far, over the top. It’s only been a few days, after all. “That makes me happy to hear,” T’Challa says, blowing that theory out of the water.

“Well, good,” Sam says, feeling tongue-tied. “How’s the diplomacy coming?”

Now it’s T’Challa’s turn to sigh. “I have a full day of it tomorrow. I wish Shuri were here to do this part. She is better at negotiations than I am. I wish I could just fight them and get it over with.”

Sam laughs. That seems to be his type. “Yeah, you weren’t real worried about diplomacy when you were running around with your claws out.” He winces a little after he says it, because that was all a painful time for T’Challa, but T’Challa just laughs.

“The claws help with grip,” he defends himself.

“Yeah, gripping people’s throats,” Sam shoots back, grinning when he makes T’Challa laugh again. Sam kind of wants to ask where Nakia is staying and dig a little teasingly-but-seriously about just how in love this girl is, but he’s reigning himself in. T’Challa didn’t seem into her when Shuri brought it up earlier. And really, even if he is, Sam and T’Challa haven’t talked about exclusivity. Sam doesn’t get to be jealous.

He just wishes his brain would get the memo.

“I wish you were here too,” T’Challa says, sounding almost shy and sending all thoughts of Nakia flying away.

“Me too,” Sam admits. He’s gotten used to seeing T’Challa every night, even if it’s only been a few days.

“They are farther from the jungle here,” T’Challa tells him. “The open sky is more visible. I think you would like that.”

“I would,” Sam says. He gets claustrophobic sometimes if he can’t see the sky.

“I would like to bring you here someday,” T’Challa says softly. Sam’s heart picks up. “Perhaps with…some wings. You could test out that open sky.”

Sam almost can’t even talk with the way his heart is up in his throat. “I’d love that,” he manages to say.

“Good,” T’Challa says. “And I would love to see it.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” T’Challa confirms. “To make you happy, Sam.”

Sam sucks in a breath. He wants to press a pillow over his face for a second because he’s so giddy about all this. “I think you’re on the right path for that,” Sam tells him. He can hear T’Challa’s smile when he says.

“I am glad to hear it.”

"Will you say something in Wakandan?" Sam asks. "I need to learn. Just tell me about your day and I'll see if I recognize any words."

T'Challa _hmm_ s while he thinks. He says something softly that sounds incredible and melodic. He's obviously smiling as he says it. Sam doesn't say anything for a second after T'Challa stops speaking.

"I didn't understand a single word of that," he finally admits. T'Challa cracks up laughing.

"Well, someday," he says, amused.

"Someday soon," Sam corrects. "I'm a fast learner."

"I am looking forward to it." They’re quiet for a while, listening to each other breathe, and Sam’s eyelids start to droop. It’s been a long day.

“I will hang up now,” T’Challa says, voice so soft and warm in Sam’s ear. “I hope I will see you tomorrow, but if I do not come back tomorrow, I would like to call you again.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, words coming out slow on the verge of sleep. “I like talking to you on the phone.”

“I do, too,” T’Challa says. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night,” Sam says. After another beat of listening to each other, T’Challa hangs up. Sam rolls over, resting his head against the soft mattress, and he looks at his blank phone screen for a long time before he finally goes to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to be able to post next weekend because I'm going out of town, so I'll try to write an extra long chapter for when I get back. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this at a weird time, but I'm heading out straight after work tomorrow to spend the weekend with a friend and I wanted to hurry and get this up since I missed TWO weeks of updating! Also I was excited that my brain finally cooperated and let me write. Yay!

Shuri finds Sam during breakfast. Steve and Barnes are sleeping in, which Sam is pretty sure means they’re having sex, but he’s got his plantains to himself so he doesn’t mind much. Barnes always steals them, and Sam can’t get mad because he’s usually stealing them to give to Steve, who’s too polite to steal more than two even though he wants twelve.

“Do you have plans following this?” Shuri asks. Sam is instantly suspicious. She’s asking rather than demanding, and that seems strange.

“Why?” He asks skeptically.

“I would like to meet with you.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “Why are you being polite?”

Shuri narrows hers right back. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not polite to me.”

She stiffens slightly. “I am polite,” she says coolly. Sam thinks maybe he struck a nerve, though it seems almost a bizarre nerve to have struck.

“You just don’t usually…check with me to see if I have plans,” he says carefully.

Shuri licks her lips. “It is important to my brother that you be allowed to have your own life.” She sounds like it pains her to say it. It probably does.

“Oh,” Sam says, hoping he doesn’t sound as gooey as he feels. That’s the only word to describe the way he feels about T’Challa wanting him to have his own life. His insides feel like mush and his legs want to go all wobbly. Gooey. “Well, I’m free,” he remembers to add.

“Good,” Shuri says decisively. “Change into something more formal and meet me outside.”

“For what?” He asks. She purses her lips and he raises his eyebrows. “Don’t make me tattle to T’Challa,” he warns, mostly joking. She rolls her eyes.

“I will be meeting with some other political advisors. I think it would be advantageous for you to come along.”

“Advantageous,” Sam echoes. “Huh.”

“I will see you in a few minutes.” She leaves without waiting for a response. He’s more used to that.

Sam doesn’t sprint to his apartment, because Sam is a grown man and an Avenger and he lives his own life. He does power walk, though. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to disappoint T’Challa, but it’s at least a 50/50 split between that and his fear of Shuri.

Steve is in the kitchen when Sam bursts in, and he gives Sam a big grin. “Hi!” He’s all excited like he didn’t see Sam forty-five minutes ago. “We’re going to go wander around the market. Want to come?”

“Can’t,” Sam says apologetically, not slowing down much. “Gotta meet Shuri,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads to his room.

“Oh,” Steve says, following him. “For what?’

Sam digs a collared shirt out of his closet. He knows he never bought it and he’s not sure where it came from. “Some political advisor meeting.”

“Sounds fun,” Steve deadpans, leaning in the doorway.

Sam huffs. “Better than her dropping outta trees on top of me.”

“You want T’Challa to drop on top of you!” Barnes calls nonsensically from the other room. Steve rolls his eyes but Sam can’t help a little laugh.

“Wouldn’t say no,” he admits, doing up the buttons on his shirt. “Do I look political?”

“Not sure I’m the best person to ask,” Steve points out. “Most of my political experience happened in tights.”

“And booty shorts!” Barnes reminds them gleefully.

“Well, I guess if Shuri doesn’t like it she can deal with it,” Sam says with a shrug. “She gave me like ten minutes.”

“She gonna come in and get you?” Steve’s voice sounds weird, like he’s trying to joke but can’t quite get there. Sam figures it’s because he’s still not completely sold on Shuri. Steve gets really protective.

Kind of an understatement.

“Probably,” Sam grouses. “But she did _ask_ this time. Said T’Challa wants to make sure I still have my own life.”

Steve laughs at the look on Sam’s face, so Sam scowls at him. It just makes Steve laugh harder. “You’re moony,” Steve says.

“Moon me!” Barnes cuts in.

“Shut up!” Steve yells back, but he’s grinning huge. Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll see you guys later,” he says. “And I do not want to be mooned by either one of you when I do.”

“No promises,” Steve says solemnly, lips twitching and giving him away. Sam shoves him a little as he goes by and then throws a middle finger at Barnes for good measure. He slows to a regular walk when he gets closer to the heavy doors leading outside. He doesn’t want Shuri to see him out of breath. Some stubborn part of him still refuses to let her think he’ll come running when she asks.

She looks him over and sort of shrugs, so Sam shrugs back, a bit defensive. She didn’t specify _how_ formal he needed to look, so she can’t get mad at him for how he’s dressed. He put on slacks and a collared shirt.

“We will have to get you proper formalwear,” she says, reading his thoughts. He tries to keep his face calm and his tone even.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“I do not mean to be rude,” she says carefully, shocking him for the second time today. “I only mean…that is not formal wear for Wakanda.”

“Oh,” he says. “Like…something more traditional?”

Shuri nods, then makes a face like she’s sucking on a lemon. “My brother will probably be _very_ happy to see you in Wakandan formalwear.”

Sam cracks up laughing at her horror. That’s a sibling dynamic he more than understands. But Shuri’s levity ends almost as quick as it started; she gets serious again and Sam sighs a little internally. He kind of likes her when she’s not snapping at everyone and frowning all the time.

“Here,” she says, holding out a little earpiece.

He raises his eyebrows. “A comm?”

“It is a translation device,” she tells him smugly. “Wakandan technology. It will translate Wakandan to English. We will be speaking Wakandan, but I want you to understand.”

“Wow,” Sam breathes. He slips it into his ear as they walk to one of the smaller buildings beside the palace. “Okay, try me.”

It’s a little weird, because he can hear the Wakandan first before a smooth computer chirps out, “ _We do not have time for games._ ” But it’s also _awesome_.

“This is amazing!” Sam cries excitedly. And then he gasps when the computer translates that to Wakandan. “It goes both ways!”

“Like you, I’ve heard,” Shuri says, sending Sam into sputtering laughter _again_. Maybe it’s his genuine appreciation of the technology she’s showing him, but she seems almost happy.

“Yeah, well,” Sam shrugs. “We’re everywhere these days.”

“There will be some citizens in this meeting,” she wants him. She switches gears so fast it almost makes him dizzy. “They will be coming to air their grievances. Do not be worried if things get heated.”

“Do they usually air their grievances to you?” Sam asks curiously. It’s getting easier to ignore the overlap of English and Wakandan. Mostly because he doesn’t understand the Wakandan in his ear.

“No,” Shuri admits. “This is a ceremony usually reserved for the king. But he left unexpectedly, and this is a weekly opportunity. It is important for the people to know they can access the government.”

“But people might act up more with us than with him,” Sam guesses. Shuri tips her head.

“Yes,” she says simply.

“Don’t worry,” Sam says, exaggerating a swagger. “I’ll protect you.”

Shuri snorts but doesn’t say anything, which Sam takes to mean she’s had very good diplomatic training indeed.

Sam feels incredibly drab in his cream-colored shirt and dark slacks once they walk in and see how everyone else is dressed. Shuri’s dress is a rich purple, but everyone else is in bright colors, orange and green and blue and yellow. He can see what she meant about getting him something proper to wear.

He gets some curious looks, and he sees a pair of lips or two purse at him, but no one says anything.

“ _Welcome and good day_ ,” the computer tells him everyone is saying. He would try to parrot it back to them, but he doesn’t feel like embarrassing himself so quick after walking in.

“ _Welcome and good day,_ ” Shuri responds. “ _Please welcome our guest, Sam Wilson, the Falcon of the United States Avengers._ ”

The _United States Avengers_ is a specification he’s never heard before. It earns him a few more wrinkled brows and he remembers that the Avengers aren’t exactly a crowd-pleaser in Wakanda. He bows his head in what he hopes is a respectful way. He’s kind of nervous, but he’s not sure if it’s because he wants to impress these people for his own or for T’Challa’s sake. Probably both.

“ _Before we bring in the people, have we any matters to discuss_?” Shuri asks.

“ _His Highness was to make a decision on the southern roadways_ ,” a man points out. “ _Did he tell you anything or shall we wait for his return?_ ”

“ _It can wait,_ ” Shuri says. “ _He will be back tomorrow_.”

That’s news to Sam. He thought T’Challa might be back tonight, but he schools his expression to avoid looking as disappointed as he feels.

“ _Anything else_?” Shuri asks, glancing around the table. No one else speaks up, so she nods at the guards by the door. “ _Please bring in the first in line._ ”

First up is a woman unhappy with the patent process. She speaks so fast the translator is tripping over the English words. Shuri politely invites her to fill out a form for a new process suggestion. Then there’s a farmer who wants to discuss government subsidies for ackee fruit. A little boy comes in, arguing his case for the diplomatic school even though his test scores weren’t high enough. Shuri agrees to give him a retake and promises they’ll consider an exception based on his perseverance.

It goes on for hours. Sam thinks of T’Challa doing this _every week_ and can hardly believe it. The people range from serious to giggly to angry, and their requests range from well-thought to ridiculous. Shuri has to tell more than one person to please leave when they start to yell.

“ _You are invited here under the promise of a civil discussion_ ,” she reminds them all, giving them another chance to change their tones. One man starts to move forward threateningly, and Sam instinctively rises from his chair.

As does every single member of the court, except Shuri. She remains calmly in her seat. Sam doesn’t know how she’s keeping her temper when he’s seen her fly off the handle almost every time he’s seen her in general.

“ _Please sit down_ ,” she says. Then she looks the man straight in the eye. “ _If you cannot remain civil as a guest to this court, you must leave_.”

The man looks furious, but he doesn’t bother fighting. There’s no way he’d be able to beat Shuri, and everyone in the room knows it.

“ _I will come back when the real ruler is present_ ,” he spits as the guards stare him out of the room. Shuri doesn’t even flinch, though Sam does, a little.

Finally, the flood of visitors ends, and they get to leave. Sam pulls the translator out of his ear, wincing and rubbing at his ear.

“It is a prototype,” Shuri says apologetically, noticing his discomfort. “We have not had much need for translation devices. We are still making it comfortable for long-term wear.”

“It’s not bad,” he assures her. “But that was a few hours.”

She nods, and they walk in silence for a while. “So…” Sam finally says. “That was…” He trails off again.

Shuri huffs a little laugh. “Yes,” she agrees. “It is a bit draining.”

“You and T’Challa do that every week?”

She shrugs. “T’Challa does not always stay the whole time. He has…trouble. Controlling his temper is something he is still working on.”

“You’ve sure got it down,” Sam praises. Shuri shrugs again, but he can see she’s pleased. The fact that she’s letting him see that is a miracle in itself.

“I have had more practice,” she says. “I went to the school. T’Challa stayed with my father and private tutors. He spent much more time learning to fight and preparing to become the Black Panther. And I am not always allowed—” She cuts herself off.

“Allowed?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

Shuri considers the side of his face for a moment. “I am not the monarch of this country,” she reminds him slowly. “And it would be improper for me to act out against another citizen while I have been entrusted with the royal endorsement.”

Sam absorbs that. They get to the doors to go back into the palace and he stops. “But T’Challa wouldn’t…I don’t know, punish you or anything,” he says, thinking of his worry when he didn’t know Shuri was T’Challa’s sister.

Shuri makes an agreeing little noise and shakes her head. “T’Challa would not. But there is still propriety that must be followed. I cannot let my family connections make me believe I am elevated above the other councilors.”

Sam doesn’t really know what to say to that. It seems to him like her family connections _do_ elevate her above the other councilors, but he doesn’t know enough about the government here to make his case.

“So T’Challa’s not coming back ‘til tomorrow, huh?” He asks. Shuri’s eyebrows fly to her hairline.

“He did not tell you?”

“Well, he said he wasn’t sure,” Sam says, trying not to feel annoyed. He’s not even sure if he’s annoyed at T’Challa or Shuri, though he knows neither of them deserve his irritation. Shuri’s the messenger, and T’Challa’s a bit busy trying to _do his kingly duty_.

“He hopes to return tomorrow, but it could be another day,” Shuri cuts into his thoughts. Sam doesn’t even hide his disappointment, and Shuri rolls her eyes, but her face is soft.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” Sam says. “It was an eye-opener.”

She tilts her head a little, searching his face, and then says, sounding almost unsure, “You are welcome. I am sure T’Challa would not oppose you coming back, if you would like.”

That’s a bit more than Sam bargained for, but he doesn’t tell her that. He just smiles and nods, and then this time _he_ slithers off and leaves _her_ standing there. It’s probably childish, but the revenge is pretty sweet.

He walks into their apartment and Steve’s head pops up from the couch. “You’re back!” Steve says. “You were gone for hours.”

“I know,” Sam says, groaning and undoing the top button of his shirt. “Shuri took me to listen to citizens come and air their grievances.”

“How was that?” Steve asks. Sam’s phone starts buzzing before he can answer. He glances down and smiles when he sees T’Challa’s name pop up.

“Hang on,” he tells Steve. “It’s T’Challa.” He doesn’t wait for Steve to answer before he slips down the hall to his room. “Well, speak of the devil,” he says.

“I am leaving here,” T’Challa bursts out, furious. “This was a pointless endeavor.” He spits out a few words in Wakandan that Sam’s pretty sure he can translate on his own, no earwig necessary.

“Whoa, slow down,” Sam soothes. “What’s going on?”

“They are disrespecting my father,” T’Challa growls. “They do not deserve my time nor my diplomacy, and they will no longer receive either.”

“T’Challa, what happened?” Sam asks, completely at a loss. He’s never heard T’Challa like this—even when he wanted to kill Barnes, his anger was a hot but contained force, and it was never directly pointed at Sam.

T’Challa’s breathing hard in Sam’s ear. “He said my father was a fool for trying to stop them before. He says they will not abide by a foolish old man’s decrees. He disrespected a dead king. I could have him hanged.”

“Jesus,” Sam breathes. “Please do not hang a village chief or whoever said this. I can’t imagine that’s a politically wise move.”

“I do not care,” T’Challa says. “My _father—_ ”

“Hey, hey, I know,” Sam promises. The thought of anyone saying shit like that about his own father makes him clench his teeth preemptively, and T’Challa’s loss is still fresh. “But what about your whole not-letting-revenge-take-over thing?”

T’Challa’s taking deeper breaths now, which is good. It would probably take longer for him to hyperventilate than a non-super-powered person, but Sam still doesn’t want to hear the guy breathing like he’s about to bust a lung.

“I am upset,” T’Challa admits, and if they were talking about almost anything else in the world, Sam would probably laugh at what an understatement that is.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I’m sorry some asshole was talking shit about your dad. But you don’t get to be your dad’s son right now. You have to be the king.”

T’Challa blows out a noisy, anguished breath. “Sometimes I wish I did not have to,” he says, so quietly Sam almost misses it. Sam’s heart clenches. He wishes he could put his hand to T’Challa’s cheek, run his fingers through his hair.

“I know,” Sam says, even though he kind of doesn’t. T’Challa’s never even hinted at that before. “It’s not easy being king.”

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, T’Challa’s breath evening out even more. “Thank you,” T’Challa finally says. He lets out a small, rueful chuckle. “I was being quite irrational.”

“It happens.” Sam’s glad T’Challa can already laugh about it. “Why’d you call me?”

“What do you mean?” T’Challa asks.

“I mean, this was a political thing. Why didn’t you call Shuri or one of your other advisors?”

T’Challa takes his time answering, giving Sam the time to start sweating. He has an inkling, of course, but now he wonders if asking the question was pushing T’Challa too hard.

“I was not thinking politically,” T’Challa says. “I was thinking…” He hesitates slightly. “I wanted someone to make me feel better.”

“And I came to mind?” Sam asks, cheeks heating up and face stretching wide in a smile. T’Challa can’t see him, but Sam ducks his head a little anyway.

“You were the last person in my call list,” T’Challa says. Sam’s so caught up in feeling gooey it takes him a second to catch on, and then he cracks up.

“Boy, way to make me feel special,” he says. T’Challa’s laughing, too, low and right in Sam’s ear. It’s enough to make his knees a little weak.

“I wanted to hear your voice,” T’Challa admits softly. “I wanted to speak with you.”

Sam’s almost glad T’Challa isn’t there with him, because he can tell he looks ridiculous. He’s two seconds away from sighing dreamily and clutching a pillow to his chest.

“I’m glad,” he says, just as soft.

“I cannot wait to come home,” T’Challa says. “I want to see you.”

Sam’s practically breathless. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, me too.”

After a minute, T’Challa asks, “So, how was your day?”

“Shuri took me to some royal meeting where people came in and yelled at us about the price of electricity.”

“Why?” T’Challa asks, sounding puzzled. “We have clean energy that keeps costs very low. And the payments are income-based.”

Sam can’t help but laugh. “No one was actually mad about electricity prices,” he says. “That’s just the first thing that came to mind.”

“Are _you_ worried about the cost of your electricity?” T’Challa asks, all concerned now. “You are living in the royal palace, which means you do not have to—”

“No!” Sam cuts him off, still laughing. “Get off electricity. It was just a court thing or whatever. Where people came and told us things they’re unhappy about.”

“Airing their grievances. What a pleasant day,” T’Challa says dryly.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how you do that every week.”

“I don’t go _every_ week,” T’Challa admits. “Shuri is much better at it than I am.”

“She was pretty impressive. Kept her cool even when some guy started coming at her.”

T’Challa snorts. “Unless he was an enhanced human, there is very little chance he could have overpowered her.”

“Yeah, she didn’t seem too worried,” Sam says. “But she kept her cool the whole time. It was crazy. I couldn’t do it.”

“Nor me,” T’Challa says quietly. Regretfully. “I hope it did not take up too much of your day.”

“Nah, it was fine,” Sam says. “And she had the _coolest_ translator thing to wear in my ear!”

“Oh, yes,” T’Challa says. “I’m glad they had a prototype ready for you to test. I know you are learning Wakandan, but it does take some time to get really fluent.”

“I know,” Sam agrees mournfully. “But hey, I bet in a year I’ll be miles ahead of where I am now.”

“In a year,” T’Challa echoes, a smile in his voice, and Sam realizes what he sort of implied. He’s not sure what to say, but T’Challa doesn’t make him say anything. “I should probably go,” he says. “I need to talk to Shuri and get her advice.”

“Alright,” Sam says. “You think you’ll come back tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” T’Challa says. “But no later than the day after. I promise.”

“Hey, I’m not asking for me,” Sam lies through his teeth. “I’m just thinking about the good of the people.”

T’Challa laughs. “The people. Yes. I am quite concerned with the good of those people. I would like to make those people happy.”

Sam can’t stop smiling. “I think those people are feeling pretty damn happy.”

“Good,” T’Challa says. “I will see those people tomorrow or the day after.”

“They’ll be waiting,” Sam promises quietly. T’Challa murmurs something in Wakandan—Sam recognizes at least one phrase from yesterday, but he isn’t sure about the rest of it—and then they hang up. Sam flops backward onto the bed and closes his eyes. He can handle another day or two. He’s fine. Really. He’s only _really_ known T’Challa for about a week now. It’s not like he’s getting _attached_ to the guy.

He’s fooling no one, least of all himself, but he kind of feels like it’s alright.


	7. Chapter 7

Sam wakes up to a knock on his bedroom door. It’s softer than Steve’s knock, so it must be Barnes. He groans a little. If Barnes is awake, it’s either very late or very early, because the dude’s sleep schedule is completely fucked. Judging by the faint hint of light from Sam’s window, it’s very early.

“What?” He calls, face still smashed in his pillow.

“Shuri’s here,” Barnes tells him. Sam groans again, annoyed. He can’t sleep in? He’s spent every day with her since he and T’Challa started courting. He pulls himself out of bed and slips on the robe Steve got him for his birthday.

“What?” He asks, coming into the hallway with his eyes barely open.

“Have you heard from T’Challa today?” She asks without preamble.

“Dude, today hasn’t even happened yet,” Sam points out. “It’s fucking five-thirty am. No. I talked to him last night and that’s it.”

Shuri rubs her face and Sam suddenly notices that her hands are trembling. His stomach drops. She was worried about T’Challa going to the White Gorilla tribe.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “Do you think something happened to him?”

“I do not know,” she admits. “He was supposed to be on his way back already. He was going to check in before leaving, but he did not, and now he is not answering his phone.” She mutters something in Wakandan that Sam’s heard from cab drivers enough to have an idea of its meaning. He swallows. Shuri is level-headed. If she’s this scared, it can’t mean anything good.

“You think they did something to him?”

“I do not know,” she repeats, sounding more desperate this time. “Neither Okoye nor Nakia are answering their phones either.”

Okoye and Nakia are T’Challa’s security detail. If all three of them aren’t answering…Sam swallows hard. “Did anyone else go with them?”

“No. T’Challa did not take any advisors with him.”

“Why not?” Sam asks. “That seems pretty stupid.”

Shuri inclines her head a little, like she agrees with him but can’t say it. “He did not wish to overwhelm the Tribe or make them think he was there to make a political statement.”

“But he _was_ there to make a political statement. Wasn’t he?”

“No,” Shuri disagrees. “He was there to show unity and good faith. And if they have taken advantage of that, I will kill them all.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters. “Calm down, Anakin, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“We have not been on good terms with the White Gorilla Tribe longer than the gorilla ban,” Shuri reveals. “Our grandfather was the first to marry a non-Dora Milaje. The most senior Dora Milaje at that time was from their tribe. They felt spurned.”

Sam groans for the third time that morning. A blood feud. Wonderful. “Okay, well, I’m sure T’Challa’s fine,” he says, for both their benefit. “He’s the fucking Black Panther.”

“He will not use his abilities against Wakandans,” Shuri says tersely. “The Black Panther is the protector of our nation. He will not destroy that. Otherwise he would not need a security detail at all.”

Sam gapes at her. “So, what, he’ll just let some Wakandan _murder_ him instead?” He can’t help the way his voice goes high-pitched. He was worried before, but he was keeping it together. Now he’s on the verge of panic.

“Sam?” Steve sticks his out of the doorway. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“T’Challa’s…missing or something,” Sam says, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“What?” Steve comes out of his room fully and immediately goes into tactical mode. “When was the last time anyone heard from him?”

“I talked to him last night before bed,” Sam reports. “I don’t know, uh, 22:00 probably.”

“What about you?” Steve asks Shuri.

“Before that. Sam is the last one to hear from him. His security detail did their routine nightly check-in at 23 hours and did not do a morning report.”

“What time’s their morning report supposed to be?” Sam asks.

“Half an hour ago.”

“They can’t just be late?” Sam asks hopefully. Shuri gives him a look.

“No,” she confirms. “They cannot.”

“Alright,” Steve says calmly. “So we head toward there.”

“We cannot swarm the White Gorilla Tribe,” Shuri says. “If it looks like we are moving in by force, they will attack.”

Sam purses his lips. “Couldn’t we go…I don’t know, diplomatically? You’re his main advisor.”

Shuri hesitates. “I could,” she says. “But without revealing that you are courting, there would be no explanation for your presence.”

Sam absorbs that. “Oh,” he says. “So either I wait here on my ass or we tell the entire country we’re having dinner together every night. Awesome.” His throat is completely dry. An entire nation knowing everything, following along with what’s happening…it’s so much pressure.

“Would it be so bad if you told everyone?” Steve asks.

“I haven’t told my damn _mother_ yet,” Sam frets. “I can’t let the whole Wakandan media have at us when she doesn’t even know.”

Shuri nods. “Not to mention the people would be angry. The king is usually supposed to put forward his choice of consort before the courting begins.” Sam’s stomach lurches.

“So they can _veto_ him?” Steve asks incredulously. “A bunch of random strangers don’t get to judge—”

“They have no veto power,” Shuri cuts in scornfully. “But that is the order it is done.”

“So why didn’t T’Challa do that?”

She shrugs. “He believed it would scare you off.”

He wasn’t wrong. Sam almost didn’t go through with this whole courting business even without every single person in the country knowing beforehand. If T’Challa had announced it at a press conference or something, Sam would’ve bolted. Thinking about it head-on right now kind of _still_ makes him want to bolt. But now it’s sort of coming back to bite him in the ass.

Shuri’s phone rings. Sam holds his breath while she practically breaks the thing in her haste to answer. She speaks several sharp sentences in Wakandan, and then closes her eyes briefly. Sam can’t tell if it’s relief or sorrow.

“What?” He asks breathlessly as soon as she hangs up. “Who was it?”

“It was Okoye,” she reveals. “They are fine. The issue was not with the White Gorilla Tribe.”

“What was the issue?” Sam prompts after she stops there.

Shuri hesitates slightly and her eyes cut to Sam before dropping to the ground. “Nakia was…making advances on T’Challa.”

“Excuse me?” Barnes asks flatly. Sam jumps a little. He hadn’t even noticed Barnes come out.

“And that stopped them from their morning report?” Sam asks what he believes is a more pressing question. He’ll freak out over fucking Nakia later. Shuri pauses again, almost wincing.

“She was making…persistent advances,” she says delicately. “She went into T’Challa’s chambers without permission. There was a bit of, um, a struggle.”

“Who the fuck is this Nakia girl?” Barnes asks bluntly.

“What, she…she _assaulted_ T’Challa?” Steve adds. He’s two seconds away from a rant, Sam can tell, but Sam can’t exactly say he’s inclined to cut him off.

“She did not assault him,” Shuri assures them all. “But she was apparently trying to, ah, seduce him.” She presses her lips together, eyes going hard. “She will be dealt with.”

“Is he alright?” Sam asks. “Probably freaked him out.”

“He is fine,” Shuri says. “For the time being. Nakia will ride in a separate vehicle from Okoye and T’Challa on the way back.”

“Who’s going to deal with her?” Sam asks. He’d be happy to think up some punishments.

“I will,” Shuri says, voice cold, and Sam thinks, well, Shuri’s probably pretty qualified for that. Acceptable. “Excuse me,” Shuri says. “I have calls to make. I apologize for panicking and getting you out of bed so early.”

“It’s fine,” Sam promises. “I’m glad.” She nods and then leaves. Sam wants to knock his head against the wall.

“Who the hell’s Nakia?” Barnes asks. “No one ever answered me.”

“She’s part of T’Challa’s security detail,” Sam says. He quickly fills them in on everything he knows, which isn’t much. Steve’s practically foaming at the mouth by the end.

“They _knew_ she had feelings for him and still let her go as part of his detail?”

Sam shrugs. “T’Challa thought she was just a silly girl with a crush. He didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

_Maybe_ , a little voice in Sam’s head pipes up. _Or maybe he did_. He brushes that jealous thought aside. Obviously if it turned into this big of a _thing_ T’Challa did not return her advances.

Sam’s phone starts buzzing in his room. He doesn’t sprint in to get it, but he might rush a bit. It’s T’Challa. “Are you alright?” Sam answers.

T’Challa sighs in his ear. “I am fine,” he says. “I am sorry you were awakened this early for something so silly. I am…embarrassed.”

“What happened?” Sam asks.

T’Challa makes a little noise in the back of his throat. “I woke up to her coming into my chambers,” he says. “I at first thought there was something wrong, because that is _usually_ the only reason a member of my detail would come into my chambers uninvited. But she was…she was undressed. And she was trying to climb into my bed.”

Sam’s swallowing down anger and jealousy so much he’s going to get the hiccups. “But are you _alright_?” He repeats. “That’s quite the wake-up call.”

T’Challa doesn’t say anything for a minute. “It is not the first time someone has tried to sneak into my bed,” he reveals tiredly. “Though it was the first time it was a member of my security detail.”

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, chest hurting a bit. “I’m sorry people treat you that way.”

“ _I_ am sorry,” T’Challa counters. “Sam, I promise you I did not encourage—”

“Hey, whoa, no,” Sam cuts him off. “This is not your fault. Period. Got it?”

“Got it,” T’Challa murmurs quietly. Sam wishes he could touch T’Challa right now, just to reassure him that he’s not mad. Well, he _is_ mad, but not at T’Challa.

“I wish no one had ever used you.” It slips out before Sam can even really fully form the thought, but it’s certainly the truth.

T’Challa sighs a little. “Thank you,” he says. “I am leaving now. I will be back later than I hoped—too late for dinner. But will you…I mean, if you would like…”

“I’ll be awake,” Sam promises. “I want to see you as soon as you get home.”

He can hear the smile in T’Challa’s voice as he says, “Wonderful. I will see you tonight, then.”

“See you tonight,” Sam echoes. T’Challa says something in Wakandan and Sam wishes he still had that translator bug for his ear.

“Bye,” he says instead of responding, because he has no idea what T’Challa said. They hang up and he slumps against the wall for a second.

“He okay?” Steve asks, coming halfway into the room.

“Yeah, he’s alright,” Sam says. “He’ll be home tonight.”

They spend the day kicking around their apartment, playing video games and watching Wakandan soap operas but making up their own dialogue because there are no English subtitles. But Sam needs to Skype his family. He does it once a month, and he made excuses last week when he should’ve done it.

His mother is already smiling when the call connects. “Hi, baby,” she says, and Sam immediately gets a lump in his throat. He’s used to being away from his family, but after coming home from the desert, it’s hard.

Especially now when he has no idea if he’ll ever get to see them again.

He clears his throat. “Hi, Mama.”

“Just me today,” she says apologetically, like he’ll be disappointed to talk to her. “Everyone else is running around. They were all gonna rush back to talk to you but Jody’s boys are sick and I don’t want them throwing up on my new carpet.”

Sam laughs, because his mom’s carpet is her pride and joy. She waited until her kids were grown up before replacing the nasty-ass green shag that had come with the house, because she’s a smart woman.

“You know I always want to talk to you,” Sam reassures her. She flounders for a minute, battling emotions, and Sam has to look down for a second.

“Well, good,” she manages to say. “How’s everything going?”

“Great,” he says. There’s a pause. He could tell her about T’Challa. It’s a great opening. The pause stretches on.

“How’s Steve? And Bucky?” She doesn’t ask about T’Challa because she doesn’t know to ask. She doesn’t know anything. His words are getting stuck behind his teeth.

“They’re good,” Sam says automatically. “Eating us out of house and home.”

“You need money?” She asks fretfully. “I can wire you some, Sammy.”

Sam wants to laugh, but he’s getting all choked up again. “Can’t wire me money,” he reminds her. “You’re being watched.” He clears his throat again. “No, we don’t need any money. We’re good.”

They’re good because they’re living in the royal palace. Because if he needed anything, T’Challa would get it for him, regardless of cost. Because T’Challa is unbelievably rich, and the fucking king. Sam can’t breathe.

“You’re safe?” She checks, and Sam can’t help the tears that well up in his eyes. He misses her. He wants to lie on her ugly floral couch and get bitched at for not helping wash the dishes.

“Yeah, Mama,” he chokes out. “I’m safe.” He’s got the fucking Black Panther protecting him. He should just _tell her_.

There’s a beep. His mom’s face falls. It’s the timer, telling them they need to cut the line before the signal gets traced. She’s got tears in her eyes now, too, and Sam feels all shaky.

“Well, be good,” she says, the same thing she used to say any time he left the house, whether it was for school or basic training. “Say your prayers and make your bed. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying.

“I’ll see you soon,” she lies, and he just nods. He sees her put her hands over her face as he’s ending the call.

He lies on his bed for a while, staring at the ceiling. Steve knocks softly and Sam sits up. “Yeah.”

“Hey.” Steve’s got his warm-support voice on again. “How you doing?”

“I didn’t tell her,” Sam admits. “I had like three openings and I just…didn’t.”

Steve pushes into the room and sits next to Sam, jostling him over to make room even though his ass is by far the smallest part of him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. He sighs. “Well, I do know. If I tell her it’s…it’s real, you know? Dating a king. Maybe, uh. Seriously dating. Maybe…maybe staying here.”

Steve makes a sympathetic hum that means a hug’s about three seconds behind. “She’d be happy for you. As long as you’re happy.”

“I know.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else, and Sam gets the hug he was anticipating. “I don’t know if I can handle the whole country knowing,” Sam admits quietly. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Maybe Wakandans are less nosy than Americans.”

Sam huffs. “Maybe.”

“I haven’t seen any paparazzi following T’Challa around,” Steve points out. “Maybe it’s like. A press release no one cares about.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and gestures down his body. “Please, Steve. You think no one will care about this?”

Steve laughs and says, “You’re right; what was I thinking?” They both laugh for a second. Sam sighs again.

“I guess I have to deal with this eventually.”

Steve shrugs. “You could just let yourself get frozen for seventy years,” he suggests. “It’s a great problem-solver.”

“Not for everyone,” Barnes calls out from the other room.

Sam snorts. “Please. I’m an _adult_. I can actually deal with my life.”

“Whatever,” Steve says, and for some reason the word out of Steve’s mouth makes Sam laugh pretty hard. “Come on,” Steve says, shaking Sam’s knee. “We want you to make us cookies.”

“Why am I the cook in this scenario?” Sam asks. It’s pretty much rhetorical. Steve’s too impatient to bake and Barnes will just eat all the cookie dough without baking or sharing any. Sam will eat two spoonfuls of cookie dough, not allow anyone else to lick the beaters, and then make perfectly-rounded cookies. He’s had his knuckles rapped with a wooden spoon too many times to do anything else.

“You like baking,” Steve reminds him. He puts on his most earnest, innocent face. It’s total bullshit. “We’re just thinking of you, Sam. We want you to be happy.”

Sam kicks him as he stands up. “You’re an asshole,” he informs Steve’s faux-wounded face. Steve drops the face and smirks at him.

“The American public doesn’t agree.”

“The American public tried to elect Donald Trump.” It was a dangerous but tactical decision to bring That Man into the conversation. Steve’s face goes puce and Sam bakes cookies the soundtrack of _countless indignities_ and _horrifically racist and sexist_ and _so unqualified!_

He lets himself have three spoonfuls today. He earned them.

 

The knock on the front door makes Sam jolt up from the couch. Barnes cracks up laughing at him. “Go change,” he encourages. “You got egg on your shirt.”

Sam all but flees to his bedroom. Because raw egg is _unsanitary_. Not for any other reason. He also spritzes a little cologne only because he doesn’t want to smell like Barnes’s weird motor-oil smell. He only has about two inches of metal left at his shoulder, but somehow he still smells like oil. Sam does _not_ want to know.

He can hear Steve’s and Barnes’s voices and T’Challa’s answering rumble. He might press his ear to the wall to eavesdrop a bit, and he cringes when he hears them talking about the upcoming elections in Wakanda.

“Is there really any point to an election when the people can’t change the leader of the country? Or is it really just a way to keep the people _feeling_ they have a voice so they don’t revolt?” Steve asks. He’s (mostly) not being combative; he really wants T’Challa’s opinion. It’s a pretty astute question, one that almost takes Sam off guard. It’s not that he forgets Steve is sort of a genius, really. It’s just that walking in on a guy dozing in the rubble of Cheetos dust and a sketchbook covered in highly realistic drawings of dicks makes it kind of easy to forget he’s helped save the entire world.

“They have a voice in the laws,” T’Challa says. “They get to decide on prison sentences and standards for the country.”

“What would happen if the people wanted to vote on kicking you out?” Barnes asks curiously.

“I…suppose we would let them vote,” T’Challa says, sounding a little hesitant. “It has never come up but the law does allow them to oust me.”

“But you could change that law,” Barnes points out. “What’s the use of being king if you can’t?”

“I am trying not to be that kind of king,” T’Challa says. Then, like this whole thing is normal, the three of them move on to talking about a new cupcake boutique that just opened in the market. Sam shakes his head a little as he buttons his shirt. His life is fucking weird.

He hustles T’Challa out the door with Steve and Barnes making lewd gestures and wiggling their eyebrows. He flips them both off while T’Challa isn’t looking. T’Challa smiles at him when the door is closed and laces their fingers together.

“Hello,” he says, and Sam’s heart flutters like he’s in a damn cartoon.

“Hi,” he replies. He leans in kisses T’Challa, chaste and soft, and T’Challa’s lips curve up into a smile.

“I am glad to be home,” he says.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

They walk outside, strolling through the garden on the perimeter of the palace, and T’Challa tells him a bit about his meetings with the White Gorilla Tribe.

“It was frustrating,” he confesses, which Sam already knows thanks to that phone call. “I do not understand why they cannot see that I am right.”

Sam scoffs a little. “They’re probably saying the same thing about you.”

“Maybe,” T’Challa says, sounding a little affronted. “But _I_ am the one who is actually right.” He smiles to show he’s joking, at least partly, and Sam rolls his eyes, unable to help the smile on his own face.

“You’re really okay after Nakia did all that?” Sam checks. T’Challa doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“I have become used to people trying to get close to me for their own gain,” he says, and Sam’s heart squeezes painfully. It hurts for T’Challa, growing up that way, and it hurts because he’s afraid for himself. Afraid of a future he could potentially have. “But I am not used to it being someone I _fully_ trusted. I have always been wary of most people, but never of the Dora Milaje. They are also protectors of Wakanda. I thought…I thought that meant they were safe to trust.”

Sam squeezes T’Challa’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I wish I could stop anyone from every treating you like that.”

“I know,” T’Challa says, smiling softly at him. “It makes me glad to know that you feel that way.”

They sit down on a bench, crowded close, and the sweet kiss from before comes back...less sweet. One kiss turns to two, to three, to four, and somehow soon they’re making out on a bench surrounded by trees and flowers and twittering birds.

T’Challa slides his tongue into Sam’s mouth and Sam shivers a little. He winds a hand into T’Challa’s hair and presses closer. He’s almost in T’Challa’s lap, and then he thinks, _good idea_. T’Challa’s strong enough to hold his weight.

T’Challa makes an incredible noise in the back of his throat when Sam climbs into his lap, and his stomach, under Sam’s hand, jumps. T’Challa’s hand finds its way up under Sam’s shirt, the warm breadth of it spanning Sam’s back, and Sam stops fighting the urge to roll his hips down to T’Challa’s. He gets one delicious feel of T’Challa’s dick, hard already, before T’Challa breaks the kiss, easing away from Sam as best he can in their current position.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs, panting a bit. “I cannot…not yet.”

Sam bites his lip in an effort to get himself back under control. “Sorry,” he says, dropping back to the bench.

“It is not…there is not a fault here,” T’Challa says. “I just cannot…I need to wait…” He licks his lips, looking away, and he sounds so flustered and worried Sam can’t take it. He puts his hand on T’Challa’s cheek.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Whatever you need.”

“It is not that I do not want to,” T’Challa promises, finally meeting Sam’s eyes with lust plain in his eyes. It makes Sam shiver again. “But everything is so…” T’Challa blows out a frustrated breath. “There is much else I must consider.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, almost all his good feeling melting away. “Like telling the whole country.”

T’Challa almost winces. “Yes.”

Sam leans forward so he can rest his elbows on his thighs and his chin on his hands. T’Challa puts a tentative hand on Sam’s back—outside the shirt this time—and lets it settle more fully when Sam doesn’t shrug him off. “I am sorry,” he repeats.

“None of this is your fault,” Sam says. “I mean, first of all, waiting is nothing to be ashamed of or apologize for. Okay? Ever. And the political stuff—I mean, that’s who you are. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

T’Challa sighs. “I still feel bad that you are dragged into it,” he says. “It is not normal.”

Sam huffs a little laugh. “Dude. I think I stopped being normal the day a superhero showed up on my doorstep.”

“No, Sam, you were never normal,” T’Challa says softly. “You are exquisite and always have been.”

Sam ducks his head. The heat in his cheeks has nothing to do with arousal or the warm night around them. He doesn’t know what to do about this—this war going on in his chest. He wants T’Challa, but he’s not sure he can handle everything that comes with him. He looks over at T’Challa, moonlight shining on his dark eyes and highlighting the beautiful angles of his face, and wants to bury his face in his hands.

He has no idea what to do, but he knows he needs to figure something out soon, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can't all be sunshine and rainbows. :(

Sam and T’Challa stay on the bench for a while. T’Challa keeps his warm hand on Sam’s back and Sam doesn’t shrug it away. He doesn’t _want_ to shrug it away. But at the same time, he doesn’t know what they’re doing here. It feels like they need to decide, need to figure out if they’re doing this for sure and quit dancing around it.

“What would it be like?” Sam asks slowly. “If you told the people.”

T’Challa doesn’t respond for a minute. He sighs a little. “You would have to be willing to submit to a full background check. The people would be allowed to air any grievances with you and bring up any concerns with your past.”

Sam’s throat goes dry. That would bring up Riley. Undoubtedly. “Nothing’s off limits?” His voice is a little choked. T’Challa blinks.

“Is there something to be concerned about?” He asks warily.

Sam blows out a breath. “My wingman died,” he says shortly. “I don’t want to talk about that with any random citizen.”

T’Challa’s face creases with sympathy. “Sam,” he murmurs. “I am sorry.” He rubs circles into Sam’s back and Sam leans his head against T’Challa’s shoulder. “All I could do is ask the people to be considerate.”

Sam snorts. Asking the general populace to be considerate. Sure. T’Challa smiles wryly. “We can put it off,” he offers.

“For how long?” Sam asks. “We have to sneak around if we keep it secret?”

“Yes,” T’Challa admits. “Not sneak around, exactly. But we would have to remain within the castle grounds.” Sam’s not sure that’s a terrible thing. T’Challa smiles faintly. “I would like to take you out,” he says softly. “Properly.”

It _would_ be nice. Going on an actual date. Sam’s not a guy who can’t appreciate dinners at home and moonlight garden walks, but going out in public, showing T’Challa off—yeah, he can admit it appeals to him.

“But it comes back to telling the people eventually,” Sam points out.

“If we decide to continue things,” T’Challa agrees.

“T’Challa…” Sam swallows. “I think we both know we’d want to.”

T’Challa leans over to rest his head atop Sam’s. “Yes.” They’re quiet. Sam closes his eyes. He wants to kick something. It isn’t _fair_. It’s so much pressure for a relationship that’s hardly off the ground yet.

“I understand if it is…too much,” T’Challa says softly. “I know it is asking a lot.”

He’s said that before, Sam remembers. Sam pulls away to sit up straight and look at T’Challa. “You’ve been down this road before.” It’s half a question.

T’Challa sighs. “I have. I was engaged.”

“Engaged?” Sam echoes.

T’Challa nods. “She was Wakandan, but raised abroad. It was, hmm, five years ago. The people took some time to warm up to her. But she had many ambitions, dreams of traveling and working and making a name for herself. Ultimately we decided she could not achieve her goals if we married.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says. “That must’ve hurt.”

T’Challa’s lips twist. “Very much,” he confesses. “It is part of why Shuri does not fully trust you.”

“Fully?” Sam asks, making his tone lighter. “So she trusts me at least a little?”

T’Challa laughs quietly. “Shuri likes you,” he reveals. He winks. “But you did not hear it from me.”

Sam laughs too. He takes T’Challa’s hand and laces their fingers together. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know what to do.”

T’Challa squeezes his hand. “Maybe we should…” He purses his lips and then drums up a sad smile. “Maybe you should think about that. We can take some time. And you can decide.”

“Go on a break?” Sam asks. His stomach drops. He likes T’Challa. A _lot_. He’s falling hard for him. But it does make sense. It’s unfair to T’Challa to keep going on the way they are if Sam’s going to back out in a week. And asking T’Challa to keep it from the people is asking him to break the law, technically. Or custom, if not the actual law. He’s a new king, trying to make his mark, and Sam’s already got him hiding things from his country.

“Time apart may help clear your head,” T’Challa says.

“We just spent a few days apart and it didn’t clear my head at all,” Sam points out, hoping he doesn’t sound petulant.

“We were not truly apart,” T’Challa counters softly. Sam rubs idly at T’Challa’s hand with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “You’re right.”

T’Challa nods, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Okay,” he says. “You can take as much time to think as you need. I will be ready for your decision.” He finally makes eye contact with Sam. “And I will honor whatever decision you make. I do not want you to feel obligated. If you are not comfortable in the palace, we will find other arrangements for you. But you will be welcome to stay, regardless of what you decide. I would like us to stay friends, either way.”

Sam’s got a lump in his throat. He nods. “Okay,” he says, because he can’t really wrap his head around all that right now. T’Challa puts his hand on Sam’s cheek and Sam leans into it, closing his eyes. T’Challa murmurs in Wakandan, and Sam hears the same phrase T’Challa’s been saying for a few days. He wishes he would’ve asked what it means, because he doesn’t think now’s the best time for that.

T’Challa brushes his lips against Sam’s and rests their foreheads together for a minute. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

“T’Challa,” Sam says, heart pounding. T’Challa shakes his head minutely, taking Sam’s with him.

“I do not want you to feel guilty or worried,” he says. “Please make the decision that is best for you. I will be waiting.”

And with a last chaste kiss, he squares his shoulders and leaves.

 

Sam is swaddled in a blanket, nestled between Steve and Barnes in front of the TV. At his feet, he has a bowl of popcorn, a water bottle, a bottle of whiskey, a can of beans, a package of cookies, a bowl of mashed potatoes, two bananas, and a plate of scrambled eggs. These two don’t really understand comfort food, but they’re trying.

Steve’s got his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and Barnes is clicking through the channels, checking with Sam each time to see if he should keep going. Sam’s stomach clenches every time he hears any Wakandan, which is making TV a bit of an issue.

“We could turn it off,” Steve offers.

“Yeah, sitting in silence would be so much better,” Barnes snarks.

“We wouldn’t sit in silence. We’d _talk_ about all this.”

The irony of Steve offering to talk about feelings is not lost on any of them. Barnes rolls his eyes. “Silence would be better.”

It rustles a smile out of Sam. “I’m really fine,” he promises. They both ignore him, which is probably smart. He’s supposed to be taking time to think, but he really doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts right now. He _is_ going to think about it everything and weigh the options. He’s not going to just leave T’Challa hanging like that. But for right now, he’s going to sit on the couch, overly-warm and flanked by two overly-large dudes, and veg.

He nods off a little, slipping into a doze, and he’s woken up by his phone ringing. At first, his heart leaps, thinking it’s T’Challa. But the screen says it’s an unknown number, and he knows T’Challa isn’t going to call first. He said he’s giving Sam space, and he’ll stick to that.

“Hello?”

“A little birdy tells me you’ve got news.”

Sam smiles automatically. “Hey, there, Ms. Widow.”

Natasha snorts. “If only I were the heiress kind of widow.”

“Not like you need some old dude’s money.”

“True,” she allows. “But it’s always nice.”

He huffs a laugh. “What birdy’s been talking to you? I thought I was the only birdy around here.”

“You’re right, he’s not much of a bird,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “More of an overgrown dog.”

“I don’t even know which one you’re talking about,” Sam laughs. “It fits both of them.”

She laughs too. “Yes, well they’ve been barking about _you_ being on the way to getting some old dude’s money.”

“He’s not old,” Sam says automatically. “And, uh, as of two hours ago, I don’t know if I’m still going that way.”

She hums. Sam knows she makes an effort to be vocal on the phone since she can’t use facial expressions. Not that she chooses to use them much in person, either, sometimes. “Sorry,” she says, and he knows she means it. “You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really,” he admits. “Not right now.”

“Hm. How about tomorrow when I come crash on your guys’ couch?”

“What?” Sam asks. Steve’s grinning and Barnes is making his pretend-annoyed face, so obviously this was a surprise for Sam alone.

“I’m passing through,” she says nonchalantly, like an isolationist country is on her way anywhere. Sam wonders if T’Challa knows she’s coming. Was he in on the surprise? He knew it would make Sam happy and Sam repaid him by—

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sounds great,” he says.

Natasha laughs a little. “Well, you don’t sound that enthusiastic, but I’ll give you a pass right now.”

“Thanks,” he says honestly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, birdy,” she promises.

“Why didn’t you guys tell me she was coming?” Sam asks Steve and Barnes. Now Steve looks a little guilty.

“Well, she called and asked while you were out with T’Cha—while you were out earlier.”

“Oh, she just decided today.” Sam rubs his chin contemplatively. “So she’ll have to talk to T’Challa to get clearance.”

“You think he won’t let her in?” Barnes asks.

“No, he will,” Sam sighs. “I just hope he doesn’t read too much into it.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, and then Steve ventures, “I could tell him we planned it before.”

Sam laughs. “Oh, sure, that would be less awkward.”

Steve shrugs. “I don’t mind being awkward.”

“He’s had a lot of practice,” Barnes adds. “He’ll probably think she’s here for me.”

Steve and Sam both turn to look at him and he shrugs. “When I, uh, first came out of cryo I guess I talked about her a lot.”

Sam cuts his eyes quickly over to Steve, but Steve doesn’t look surprised or hurt. That’s a relief. They can’t take any more romantic disappointment tonight.

“He did seem to think the two of you were open to outsiders in your relationships,” Sam says nonchalantly. Steve and Barnes stare at him.

“I didn’t talk about her like that,” Barnes says slowly.

“Okay,” Steve says quickly, clapping his hands together. “Should we watch a movie? We still have all those American movies T’Challa brought us. I mean. The American movies we have. That we got. From…America.”

“You’re making it worse,” Barnes says under his breath.

“You can say his name,” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“You’re not actually broken up yet, right?” Barnes says. Sam’s mouth goes dry at the question, and he’s not sure if it’s the _broken up_ or the _yet_ that’s throwing him for a loop.

Steve shoots Barnes a glare and Barnes winces. “I’m going to make popcorn,” Steve announces.

“We already have popcorn,” Barnes points out. Steve gives him a look like he’s being ridiculous.

“That’s one bag,” he says. “I’m not sharing. And I’m not eating that disgusting ranch flavoring you put on yours.”

Sam blocks out their bickering. Then he blocks out the romance in the movie they watch. And as he slides into bed and closes his eyes, he hopes he can block out any thoughts or dreams at all.

 

Shuri brings Natasha to their apartment. Sam can’t quit meet Shuri’s eyes, though he can feel hers boring into him.

“My favorite boys,” Natasha says.

“I won’t tell Clint,” Steve promises.

“Go ahead,” Natasha says with a shrug.

“Sam,” Shuri says. She inclines her head toward the door. “A word.”

Sam squares his shoulders and blows out a breath. “Yeah, great.”

“You want me to come with?” Barnes asks quietly, face all scrunched up distrustfully. Sam actually laughs a little.

“Thanks, man,” he says, oddly touched. “I think I’m okay though.”

“Well, yell if you need me,” Barnes says. “I haven’t had anyone decent to practice hand-to-hand with in months.”

“Uh, hello?” Steve is saying as Sam walks out.

“Like you’re a match for me,” is the last thing Sam hears before the door shuts.

Shuri just stares at him for a minute. Sam does his best not to squirm. “I assume you will not want to continue our meetings while the Black Widow is visiting?”

It takes a minute for Sam to process her question. “Uh.” He stops. “Just while she’s visiting? Did, um. Did T’Challa not…?”

“He told me,” Shuri assures him steadily. “You are taking time to think.”

“Yeah,” Sam says slowly. “So…”

“So?” Shuri shrugs. “We cannot afford to lose valuable time while you are thinking. I do not know how long it will take you before you decide to continue. It would be best for us to keep up your lessons so that you are prepared for the public reaction.”

Sam’s mouth is completely dry. “So you’re pretty sure you know which way I’m gonna go, huh?”

“Yes,” Shuri says easily, and Sam feels annoyance building in his chest. He’s glad she can be so carefree about all this. Sam was up half the night tossing and turning and had a nightmare about a white gorilla dragging him off into the trees and declaring him not good for T’Challa because of the spelling bee he lost in fourth grade, but sure, Shuri’s not worried at all.

“You think you know me?” Sam asks, teeth clenched.

Shuri sighs like she’s bored and Sam has to look away, suddenly choked with anger. They were starting to get along, but this haughtiness is exactly why he didn’t like her to begin with.

“You are worried about not seeing your family again. You feel pressure about being entwined with the monarch. You do not want the intrusion into your life.” Shuri shrugged again. “You have already had publicity from your time with the Avengers. And I have seen the way you look at my brother. I know you will choose to be with him.”

It rankles. Sam’s never been great at people telling him what to do, military career notwithstanding, and Shuri acting like this decision he’s wrestling with is no big deal has him clenching his hands into fists.

“This isn’t a song,” he snaps. “Sometimes your feelings aren’t enough.”

“Okay,” she says placidly. “Let me know when Ms. Romanoff leaves and we can get back to work.”

Sam stomps back into the apartment. His friends all fall silent at the waves of anger rolling off him.

“You didn’t yell,” Barnes accuses. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing,” Sam mutters. “Let’s go spar.”

“Ah, yes, the healthy way of dealing with our problems,” Natasha mutters. Sam glares at her and gives him a big smile. “I’m not complaining.”

Natasha and Barnes go out the door and Steve hangs back. He puts his arm around Sam’s shoulders and squeezes a little before releasing him. “You alright, buddy?”

Sam’s anger is bleeding out of him a little, and he’s tired from being up all night. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Steve says sympathetically. “Well, let’s go hit each other, and if you want to talk later, I’ll do my best not to look constipated.”

Sam laughs softly. “I always appreciate your hard work.”

Steve winks at him. “Until I lap you for the fourth time.”

Sam shoves him out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up a month late with angst*

Sparring does wonders for keeping Sam’s mind off things. Especially because Natasha is _relentless_. Steve and Barnes are always a bit more cautious with him, holding back, just because they have to be with any regular human—Barnes more than Steve, because Barnes is terrified of hurting anyone—but Natasha doesn’t spare him a minute. Sure, she’s not fighting for her life, so in a sense she _is_ going a little easy on him, but she never pulls her punches even a hair.

“Goddamn,” Sam pants, drops of sweat _plink_ ing to the mat under their feet as he rests his hands on his knees to breathe for a second.

“You said you wanted to spar,” Natasha points out, circling him. Steve and Barnes are on the ground, and it would look sexual if not for the way Barnes has his legs locked around Steve’s throat and Steve’s grunting in pain. Sam leaves them to it. Not only have they been tussling since before Sam’s _grandmother_ was born, this probably acts as foreplay for them.

He’s so glad Natasha is here.

She takes pity on him eventually, though he’s going to have a black eye and his lip is split, and they all get cleaned up before reconvening in the kitchen.

“We’re going out,” Natasha announces. Sam doesn’t know if Steve and Barnes told her about the communal meals here or if she found out on her own, but he knows she’s doing it to spare him. He’s caught halfway between annoyance at the three of them babying him and gratitude at their forethought.

“We’ve got a favorite place,” Barnes says. “You’ll love it. They don’t give you white-people spice level because they’re just used to everyone being Wakandan.”

“Perfect,” Natasha says. Sam shakes his head. He was trying to be _kind_ when he toned down the spice for them. He has fed white people before and they could not _take_ the kind of heat Sam cooks up. And all he got were complaints from Barnes and Natasha—separately, not even together, they still managed to team up against him.

Steve rolls his eyes in commiseration at Sam, mostly because he can’t take as much spice as Barnes and Natasha. He’s better than Sam’s white uncle, who sweats through every meal, but Barnes still teases him.

They walk to the restaurant, because it’s only a few blocks and Sam honestly isn’t sure how they’d call a car. Before, they just texted T’Challa and he sent one, but now…well. The restaurant isn’t busy, which is weird. It’s dinnertime, and every time they’ve come it’s been crowded.

The reason becomes obvious about two seconds later. Sam sees Shuri first, and his stomach drops. And then T’Challa turns around. He stiffens.

“Hello,” he says haltingly. He nods at Steve and Bucky. “Ms. Romanoff. Glad to see you arrived safely.”

“Thank you for allowing me,” Natasha says. It’s only been a day since Sam’s seen T’Challa, but it feels like longer. Sam can’t look away.

“Sam,” T’Challa finally says softly. “I am sorry. I came here…” He trails off, but Sam realizes what he means. T’Challa came here for the same reason they did—to avoid bumping into each other in the dining hall of the palace.

Sam should’ve known better than to come here. T’Challa _recommended_ the place to them.

“Your country,” Steve says. “You can go wherever you want.” He is not being his polite self, which is half-annoying and half-endearing. Maybe 60/40. None of this is T’Challa’s fault.

“It’s fine,” Sam breaks in. “We’ll go.”

“No,” T’Challa protests. “I will go.”

“You were here first,” Sam points out.

“I…” T’Challa pauses, looking embarrassed. His eyes dart toward the door and then back to Sam. “I do not want you to be uncomfortable.”

“We’re still friends, right?” Sam asks. “You can get a table and we can get a table. No big.”

“Sam,” T’Challa chides quietly. “We are supposed to be taking time apart.”

“T’Challa, we’re bound to run into each other when I’m living in your palace.”

T’Challa swallows. He glances at Shuri, who’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest and her eyebrow cocked boredly. He turns back to Sam, visibly steeling himself.

“Alright,” he says. “We are finished ordering. Please go ahead.”

He nods at them all once again and backs away, eyes lingering on Sam, and Sam still can’t look away. He wants to take T’Challa’s face in his hands. He wants to kiss his pursed lips. He wants to put a hand on his tight shoulders.

“Do you want to leave?” Natasha asks.

“No problem if you do,” Steve assures him.

“No,” Sam says, proud of himself for how steady his voice. “We’re gonna stay.”

“Oh, great,” Barnes mutters. “Self-flagellation over dinner. My favorite.”

Sam glares at him. “It’s not self-flagellation. It’s maturity.”

He gets three skeptical looks in return, but no one tries arguing with him. They get up to the counter to order. It strikes Sam that there are no paparazzi around. He doesn’t know if that’s because they wouldn’t expect T’Challa to be eating in a place like this—walk-in, order at a counter, sit wherever you want—or because the Wakandan public doesn’t care what the king eats for dinner.

Considering what he’s seen of the news, Sam thinks it must be the former.

Sam and Shuri are standing off to the side of the counter, waiting for their food, and Sam keeps glancing at T’Challa from the corner of his eye. Steve notices and steps forward slightly to block his view. Sam can’t help but feel relieved. They’re not technically broken up, he reminds himself. Yet he can’t stop feeling his heart twist when he hears T’Challa _breathing_ from the right of him.

And then, of course, they finish ordering and have to move to the side to wait for their food. They shuffle awkwardly close to Shuri and T’Challa. Sam has to hold his breath for a second. He just wants to lean against T’Challa. But on the other hand, he wants to run out of this restaurant and out of this country, all the way home.

T’Challa and Shuri get their food. For a second, they just stand there. Shuri hasn’t even looked at Sam. T’Challa murmurs something in Wakandan to her and she rolls her eyes, firing back in a tone Sam is all too familiar with—annoyance.

“We are returning to the palace,” T’Challa tells them quietly, not meeting Sam’s eyes now. “Enjoy your meal.” He looks up at Sam, and Sam has to bite his lip. All the same things he’s feeling are written all over T’Challa’s face.

“T’Challa,” Sam starts, but he finds he has nowhere to go with the sentence. He knows this break they’re taking is the best thing for both of them, but it _hurts_. It hurts to see T’Challa here and to see that he’s hurting, too. Why can’t everything be simpler? Why did T’Challa have to be born into the royal family? Why did he have to be born the oldest?

“Goodbye,” T’Challa whispers. Sam doesn’t try to stop him again. He eats three bites of his dinner, and he doesn’t hear a word of the conversation around him.

 

Sam’s lying in bed, staring at the wall, when Natasha knocks on his door. He knows it has to be Natasha, because Steve has a different knock and Barnes is terrible at remembering to knock at all.

“Come in,” he calls.

“Hi,” Natasha says as she crosses the room. She crawls into bed with him. Natasha keeps her softer side zealously guarded, but once someone’s in, they’re _in_. “Tell me about him,” she orders. “Pros and cons.”

Sam sighs. “Pros: everything about him personally. He’s kind and smart and funny and gorgeous. Cons: everything about his position and what comes with it.”

“You didn’t grow up dreaming about marrying a king?” She teases, stealing his pillow.

“Not when it meant leaving my family behind,” Sam says. Natasha stops fluffing the pillow under her head.

“Do you want me to tell you this will all blow over soon and you can go home again or your family can come to Wakanda?” Natasha asks.

“Not if you don’t think it’s true,” Sam says. “You’ve been on the run from a government before, haven’t you?”

“From _a_ government? No,” she snorts. “From multiple governments? Yes. But you’re not going to get a happy ending to those stories.” She tips her head to the side. “The happiest ending is Clint didn’t shoot me, SHIELD recruited me, and…” She smiles bitterly. “Well, here we are.”

Sam blows out a breath. “Wonderful.”

Natasha abandons the pillow she stole from him and rests her head on his shoulder instead, making him grumble a little under his breath for appearances. “Once upon a time,” she starts. “I asked Captain America who he wanted me to be. He said a friend, so I’ve been doing my best to make that work. So I’m going to give you some friendly advice.”

“Hit me,” Sam says, smiling a little despite himself.

“With things the way they are right now, with Ross and the Accords and everything, you can’t go home and your family can’t visit you anyway, T’Challa or no T’Challa. Right?”

“Right,” Sam mumbles, already seeing where she’s going. She doesn’t finish the thought. She just shrugs, rolls over, and stands up.

“Think about it, okay? Tally that into your pro/con list.” She starts to walk out of his room and Sam calls after her.

“You’re okay, right?”

She turns around and smiles wryly at him. “Here’s some more friendly advice. Sort yourself out first before moving on to me, Mr. Feelings Man.”

He rolls his eyes. “I told you guys I’m not a therapist.”

“Then quit trying to act like one!” She snarks over her shoulder.

Sam puts his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. She has a point. If Ross is still out to get him, he won’t get to see his family for God knows how long. Being with T’Challa won’t change that. So why not be with T’Challa and be happy in the meantime?

But.

That’s just it—there’s always seems to be a _but_. But there’s still the paparazzi issue. But there’s still the pressure of the entire country judging him. But, but, but.

Sam closes his eyes and scrubs his hands down his face. He has to decide after a few weeks if T’Challa is worth upending his entire life for. Telling Wakanda about their relationship means it’s serious, means they’re committed, means they’re going places. And Sam isn’t sure he’s ready to take that on already. He likes his relationships a hell of a lot more carefree for at least the first two _months_. But keeping it secret isn’t working; it’s weighing on T’Challa, obviously, and it could cause problems for them down the line if they decide there’s a line to go down.

Sam groans loudly, not caring that his bedroom door is still open and Steve, Barnes, and Natasha can undoubtedly all hear him. Let them hear. They should know he’s wrestling with some demons at the moment. Maybe it’ll at least mean they’ll bring him breakfast in bed.

He rolls over to grab his phone and checks his email. His stomach drops when he sees the email from his mother. Just what he needs, more fuel to his agony-fire.

_Hello baby! I’m running out soon to go see that new superhero movie. Too bad they won’t make a Falcon movie. You’d be so handsome on the big screen and the Falcon is the best superhero. Too hard for anyone else to fly, though. They’re not as strong as you! I worry about you a lot, Sammy. Your last few emails have sounded a little strange. Are you okay? You sound happy one minute and sad the next. I always just want you to be happy. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll find a way to get it if I have to get some wings myself and fly there. Ha! Imagine that. Love you so much, Sammy boy. Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo Mom_

Sam’s eyes go out of focus and he lets them. His mother would have the best advice, but he’s not ready to tell her. He’d have to tell her he’s basically betrothed, and to someone she might never be able to actually meet.

“Um, Sam?” Barnes calls from the living room. “You might want to…come here.”

Sam considers ignoring him, but Barnes doesn’t normally suggest things. He orders or he takes. Sam goes to the living room, and the first thing he notices is Steve, Barnes, and Natasha all glued to the TV. He turns and sees…himself. In T’Challa’s lap.

“Oh,” he breathes. The pictures are dark and Sam’s face isn’t visible, but there’s definitely no mistaking T’Challa, head thrown back as Sam sucks at his neck. It’s from the other night, in the garden, before they decided to take their break. For a second, Sam is so stunned by the incredible sight of T’Challa coming undone his brain doesn’t quite process what he’s seeing.

“Oh, shit,” he blurts out when he finally catches up. “Someone took pictures of us?”

“And leaked them,” Steve says grimly. His hands keep clenching and unclenching like he’s longing to punch someone.

Sam drops unsteadily to the couch. “But we were on the palace grounds,” he says faintly. “T’Challa…T’Challa was so sure we were fine if we stayed on the grounds.”

“Obviously he had too much faith in his people,” Natasha says.

“Is this even legal?” Barnes asks. “He’s the king. Can they be spreading stuff like this around?”

“It doesn’t really matter at this point,” Steve points out. “They already did, and it’s out there.”

Sam takes a shuddering breath. The newscasters are speaking Wakandan, so he’s only catching the basic premise of their words, but their furrowed brows and angry looks are saying a hell of a lot.

“I ruined him,” he realizes. “Now the kingdom knows he was courting me without telling them. This is going to cause so many problems.”

“This is not your fault,” Steve says sharply. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve’s right,” Natasha says.

“And T’Challa’s not going to blame you,” Barnes adds. “You know he won’t.”

Sam swallows hard. No, T’Challa won’t.

“Here,” Natasha says. “Let’s see if this works.” She pulls a little square out of her pocket and affixes it to the TV. After a few seconds of loud static, English starts pouring out of the box. “Translator,” she tells them. “Prototype that might’ve somehow come from Stark’s labs.”

“It does Wakandan?”

Natasha shrugs. “Tony would say it does everything.”

Steve’s lips tighten at the mention of Stark, but he doesn’t say anything. Barnes’s eyes go downcast, and Steve claps a hand to his shoulder. Sam can’t think of anything to say. He doesn’t feel too positive about Stark himself, these days.

And then T’Challa fills the screen, and Sam can’t look away.

“This is an invasion of my privacy,” T’Challa says evenly. “The palace worker who released this photo will be dealt with immediately.” He clears his throat. “I am a grown man. My position as king does not mean I am not allowed to pursue certain…proclivities.”

“Your Highness,” the reporter says, bowing her head a little to show her respect before pouncing. “Were you truly courting this man without announcing your attentions? What about your duty as the king and our rights as citizens to know who could potentially become a future consort?”

T’Challa blinks twice. It probably doesn’t even register to anyone who doesn’t know him, but Sam’s breath catches. T’Challa’s at a loss. He doesn’t know what to say. And it’s Sam’s fault. He feels horrible.

And then T’Challa opens his mouth, and Sam finds he can still feel worse.

“No,” he says simply. “I was not truly courting this man. We were simply physical together.”

Sam hears rushing in his ears. He feels like he’s going to be sick. A hand touches his arm and he starts.

“Sam,” Steve says lowly. “Take a deep breath.”

“He just said…” Sam can’t even finish the thought.

“I heard it,” Steve assures him. “I’m sorry.”

“He was lying,” Barnes says. “Obviously. You know that. But I mean—he was only saying that to keep the vultures off his tail.”

“He has a tell,” Natasha agrees. “He blinked twice before he answered that, and I’ve never seen him blink twice before answering any other question.”

“Maybe he was protecting you,” Steve says. He sounds more begrudging than Natasha and Barnes, and Sam knows it’s his tendency toward blind loyalty for the people he loves. Maybe not completely blind, but certainly clouded.

“Of course he was,” Barnes says. He gestures at the TV. “They just asked if he’d reveal your identity and he said no.”

“I have to go talk to him,” Sam says. He feels blank. He knows what they’re all saying makes sense, but he still feels like he can’t quite take a deep breath. Hearing T’Challa completely deny that they had a relationship beyond anything physical hurt. It hurt a lot. They didn’t even _get_ very physical, if they’re getting really technical.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Steve asks warily. “Do you think there might be people camped outside waiting to talk to him?”

Sam shrugs. “Not like they can get inside to get to his chambers. Was that live?” He asks, pointing at the TV.

“No,” Natasha supplies. “Two hours ago.”

“Okay.” Sam takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna—I gotta get dressed, and then I’m going to talk to T’Challa.”

“Do you want me to come?” Steve asks.

“Us,” Barnes corrects.

“Us,” Natasha agrees.

“No,” Sam says. “I just—I need to talk to him. We’re adults. He can explain himself. It won’t be a big deal.”

Nobody believes him about it not being a big deal, of course, and he doesn’t really know if he believes it himself, but he has to go. He throws his clothes on haphazardly and heads for the door. He hesitates for a second before he leaves.

“We’ll be here,” Steve promises softly. “When you get back.”

Sam nods, and then he leaves.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam wants to practice what he’s going to say to T’Challa the whole walk to his quarters, but he can’t think of anything. His mind is completely blank. He just keeps seeing the picture of T’Challa with his head thrown back and then hearing T’Challa say they weren’t in a real relationship. He thinks he might be in shock. Not _actual_ shock, not physically—he knows the signs of that. But he’s in some kind of emotional shock.

They got outed. Someone sold their picture to the media. And then T’Challa denied a relationship. He was saving his own skin as much as Sam’s, no matter what Sam’s friends say. T’Challa would be in deep shit if the people found out he was courting Sam without making it public.

Sam’s not even sure he’s mad. He understands why T’Challa said it. And he doesn’t want anything they do—or don’t do anymore—to hurt T’Challa.

But Sam’s definitely…not happy.

“Sam,” Shuri says, unsurprised. She’s standing outside T’Challa’s quarters. “He is not back yet. He should be shortly.”

“From the press conference?” Sam asks. Shuri shakes her head.

“He had another meeting after.” She doesn’t elaborate. Sam wants to ask what kind of meeting, but he knows he has no right.

“You didn’t go with him?” He asks instead.

Shuri’s lips tighten. “He asked me not to. He wants to test his diplomatic skills.”

Sam can’t hold in a snort and Shuri tilts her head, the only sign she agrees. They stand there in silence for a while, and Sam is uncomfortable. He knows Shuri knows what T’Challa said. And he knows Shuri—T’Challa’s sister—saw the picture of them in the garden. So he feels a little awkward.

“I’m not mad at him,” Sam says.

“Good,” Shuri answers.

“I just want an explanation. And I want to talk about the picture.”

Shuri’s eyebrows twitch upward at the mention of the picture. “We know who took it and sold it already,” she tells him. “It was Nakia.”

“Nakia,” Sam growls. That girl has been nothing but trouble.

“She was upset that he refused her advances and followed him. When she saw the two of you together…” Shuri shrugs.

“I think this is my fault,” Sam admits quietly. Shuri just raises an eyebrow. “Well, I was the one who climbed into his lap.” His face is burning with a blush.

Shuri snorts. “Yes, he looked like you had forced yourself there and he was not enjoying it at all.” It makes Sam blush deeper. “Sam.” Shuri is suddenly very serious. She turns to look him directly in the eye. “I want you to know…if you want him to abdicate, he might. I would assume responsibility for leading the country. I am willing to do that.”

Sam can’t even speak for a few seconds, he’s so blown away. “Abdicate?” He finally manages to squeak out. “Why would I want him to abdicate?”

Shuri wrinkles her brow. “So you do not have to worry about the process of courting with the whole nation watching.”

“You think I’d ask him to give up the throne for me?” Sam’s mouth is completely dry. “And after a week?”

“Is that not the biggest hurdle to your relationship right now? His responsibilities?”

“T’Challa is the king,” Sam says. “He—he loves being king. He’s good at it. I wouldn’t ask him to just throw that away for me.”

Shuri studies him for a moment. “Okay,” she finally says. It rankles a bit, like she knows that deep down he kind of _wants_ to ask T’Challa to step down, that part of his heart leapt in excitement when he thought the people could potentially dethrone T’Challa over those pictures.

“You probably just want the throne to yourself,” he snaps.

Shuri’s eyes flash. “Do not accuse me of being a traitor to my brother,” she fires back. Sam touched a nerve. He’s kind of glad, since she did for him, too. “I have done nothing but help him learn his position since our father died.” She immediately looks regretful, like she wishes she hadn’t said that. Sam’s anger bleeds away. He knows Shuri has always looked out for T’Challa. He shouldn’t be mad at her for his own selfishness.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just…” He shrugs. Shuri doesn’t say anything for a minute, breathing deeply to calm herself down.

“I often wished I was born first,” she reveals. “When we were younger. I felt I…deserved it. I studied diplomacy more. I was better at controlling my temper with the citizens. All T’Challa ever wanted to do was run about and fight as the Black Panther. I thought we should separate the positions. He could be the Black Panther and defend Wakanda, and I could rule politically.”

“You were jealous?” Sam asks, hushed.

She makes a face. “I do not know if jealousy is the right word. Maybe I am just blind to my own failings. I just thought that I could handle the responsibility better. T’Challa is older but he has always chosen to fight first, talk later.” She huffs. “I believe your friend Barnes is aware of this.”

“So what changed your mind?” Sam asks, because there’s no denying she must’ve. Or if she didn’t, she’s at least pretending, and doing a damn good job.

“Did T’Challa tell you about Monica Lynne?” Shuri asks. “He was engaged to her.” She glances at him quickly, gauging his reaction.

“He told me he was engaged,” Sam confirms, and Shuri relaxes a bit. She was probably worried she’d be spilling T’Challa’s secrets, so Sam goes on. “He told me they decided they couldn’t be together because he was going to be king.”

Shuri nods. “It was very difficult for him. But he picked the throne, and his country, over her, and that was when I realized that he could be a wonderful king. He just needed to learn more, focus more. So I did my best to teach him. He learned better from me than from Father. Father was too…gentle. He did not want T’Challa stuck in a room when he longed to be outside. Father knew how that felt.”

“That was all it took?” Sam asks skeptically. “He chose her over the country and you decided to stop being jealous?”

“He loved her deeply,” Shuri says. She’s giving Sam the Eyebrows of Reproach. He’s gotten used to it from her. “It hurt him very much to lose her. I do not like to see my brother hurting.”

That tells Sam a bit more. It was less about the circumstance and more about T’Challa. Sam’s heart gives a little tug of affection for Shuri. He’s glad T’Challa has her, has had her through everything. He needs someone on his side for who he is as a person, not who he is to the country. Sam doesn’t let himself stop to think about why that means so much to him. Not right now, anyway. He’ll think about it later.

“Must be frustrating, though,” Sam says. “When stuff like this happens and you realize you wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if you were queen.”

Shuri shrugs. “Who says I wouldn’t? I cannot say how I would be different as queen because I am not queen. What good is imagining myself being perfect when the situation will never come to pass? I have my place in the monarchy and my own duties to fulfill. T’Challa has been a good king so far, and he will grow into a great one with time.”

“So why did you just tell me to ask him to abdicate?” Sam asks. Shuri doesn’t meet his eyes for a second, and Sam gets it. “You were testing me,” he realizes. “You’re still not sure I’m good enough for your brother.”

“Please do not be offended,” Shuri says, her tone telling him she doesn’t actually care too much if he does. “T’Challa has been hurt before. It is my job as his sister _and_ as his chief advisor to make sure that it does not happen again.”

“I want to be with him,” Sam admits quietly. “But I don’t know if I can deal with all the rest of it.”

“You need to decide soon,” Shuri tells him bluntly. “I do not like seeing T’Challa on the edge like this. Make a decision so he can get over you if need be.”

It puts Sam’s heart somewhere up in his throat. He knows she’s right. But the thought of T’Challa getting over him makes his stomach hurt. He just doesn’t know for sure if it’s because he wants to be with T’Challa or just because he’s enjoying all the attention.

It fills him with guilt. He _knows_ he has feelings for T’Challa. But he can’t deny all the dinners and the smiles and the kisses aren’t nice. It’s been a long time since anyone showered Sam with attention and affection like this, and it would be a lie to pretend it’s not doubly nice knowing T’Challa could have virtually anyone in the country and picked Sam.

Sam’s not that person, though. He doesn’t stay with people for the attention. He hardly stays with anyone, period.

He wishes someone else would make the decision for him.

“He is late,” Shuri murmurs.

“Are you worried?” Sam asks, squishing his thoughts and feelings down into a nice box in the back of his head to be examined later.

“Not yet,” she says. “Though another five minutes may do it.”

She doesn’t have to wait another five minutes for someone to appear in the hallway, but it isn’t T’Challa. She’s one of the Dora Milaje, Sam thinks. He hasn’t really been introduced, and they’re all a bit terrifying so he tries not to look at them directly lest they decide to fight him.

She fires off a string of rapid-fire Wakandan and Sam can’t catch even one word he recognizes, but her tone is almost panicked and Shuri’s getting tenser with every word. Sam’s stomach drops as Shuri answers her, also sounding as worried as Sam’s ever heard her. She sounds as worried as the day the protection detail missed their check-in.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks immediately after the Dora Milaje speeds away. “Did something happen to T’Challa?”

“Yes,” Shuri says tersely, and Sam finds himself clutching at her arm before he can stop himself. He knows very distinctly that his hand isn’t broken only through her grace. “Some of the White Gorilla has shown up. They are calling for an immediate vote to see if T’Challa should be removed.”

“Over a courting issue?” Sam asks incredulously. “Isn’t that—doesn’t it seem a bit over the top and dramatic?”

“There has been discord since my father’s death,” Shuri informs him. “This is just an opening. Not revealing he was courting you is hardly the real problem here.” She moves her arm out of his grip. “I must go. Please return to your quarters in case this hallway is no longer safe.”

Sam knows his eyes are bugging out of his head. “You think they’re gonna start a coup or something?”

“I cannot know anything,” Shuri says grimly. “Except that Nakia is a traitor. She must have been working with them. There is no other way they could have gotten here so quickly after the news broke.”

Sam swallows. “What can I do? I want to help.”

“Return to your quarters,” Shuri repeats. “Your presence can only damage.” Sam flinches and Shuri exhales harshly. “I do not mean—”

“It’s okay,” Sam interrupts, all too aware that this isn’t really the time for apologies. Especially Shuri’s apologies, because she is _bad_ at apologizing.

“I expect it will all be broadcast,” Shuri tells him. She pulls one of the translating earwigs out of her pocket and hands it to him. “This will help. Do not come out of your quarters until we send for you, and do not answer the door for anyone but me or T’Challa. We have never had outsiders around during a political disagreement. We do not know what they might do to you.”

“We’re all Avengers,” Sam reminds her. “We can help if you need us.”

Her nostrils flare for a second and Sam wishes he could take it back. “No, thank you,” she says stiffly, which is way politer than he was expecting and probably than he deserves. “We can protect ourselves. We always have.”

“Sorry,” Sam says. “I get it. Not my place. Just saying, though? One of the benefits of being less isolationist is allies to back you up.”

“You can hardly call yourselves diplomats for any country at this point,” she points out dryly. “We will call for you when we know what is happening. Please go.”

“Okay,” Sam says. His heart’s pounding. “Can you tell T’Challa I…I just…” He doesn’t know what he wants her to tell T’Challa. He doesn’t know what would even be appropriate right now. He shakes his head. “Good luck,” he finishes.

She nods and flies down the hallway, all decorum thrown out the window. Sam practically runs back to the apartment. He gets inside and finds Steve, Barnes, and Natasha gathered at the window, staring outside.

“Sam!” Steve cries. “I’m so glad you’re okay. It looks bad out there. Should we suit up and help T’Challa?”

“No.” Sam quickly tells them everything he knows about the situation. Natasha’s mouth settles into a grim line, while Steve’s drops open.

“Everyone get away from the windows,” Barnes orders sharply, yanking Steve away. “If Shuri thinks this is a coordinated attack, they could have snipers watching us.”

Natasha turns the volume on the TV up. The box is still translating, but it’s behind. Sam slips the translator into his ear.

“ _—unrest from the White Gorilla tribe,_ ” the news anchor is saying. Her eyes are wide and she looks shell-shocked. Sam can’t blame her. Wakanda’s been internally peaceful for so long. Probably her entire life.

“ _Many are calling for King T’Challa to step down_ ,” she says. “ _We are seeing discord. King T’Challa has agreed to a vote, but says it make take several days to make arrangements. The dissenters say he is stalling to stay in power._ ”

Sam can’t sit on the couch. He gets up and paces, mindful of Barnes’s watchful eye gauging the distance between him and the window. “He won’t fight back against Wakandans,” Sam says. “Shuri told me. He won’t. What if they…” He trails off. His heart is pounding way too hard. He needs to get himself under control.

“None of the Dora Milaje would let that happen,” Steve reminds him soothingly. It helps, but only a tiny bit.

“He’d sacrifice himself for them,” Sam says. He doesn’t know when his voice got all hoarse. “For any of them. For some random citizen in the crowd. God, watching and waiting is torture. I don’t know how civilians do this.”

Screams break out from the crowd. They hear it twice, since it’s right outside their window and then on the broadcast. Sam ignores Barnes and gets right up against the glass of the window.

“ _Gunfire has broken out in the crowd_ ,” the newscaster says, voice trembling. “ _We are awaiting word of any injuries_.”

Sam can see T’Challa, still standing upright. So he can see the moment T’Challa says something to the Dora Milaje that makes all of them start shaking their heads frantically and try to stay in front of them. He shakes them off. He and Shuri stand and look at each other for a few long heartbeats. They’re too far away for Sam to see the look on either of their faces, but Shuri touches her brother’s face for one second.

And then T’Challa turns, walks into the open space at the edge of the platform he was speaking from, and spreads his arms wide, a clear invitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like making a jealous woman the villain or anything but in the comics Nakia literally ejected T'Challa's fiance from a moving fighter plane during an actual war so like. Sorry, Nakia, you're a bad guy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last substantive chapter! After this we will have an epilogue. Will it be full of fluff and ridiculous sappiness? If you've ever read anything else I've ever written, you know the answer to that!

Sam is frozen. He knows he needs to stay where he is, keep his promise to Shuri and stay in the apartment until she or T’Challa comes for him. But T’Challa is standing there, arms spread, waiting for someone to _shoot him_. Sam can’t just stand here and watch, helpless, as someone he loves gets mowed down.

_Again_.

He bolts for the door, ignoring the yells of his friends behind him. He has to get to T’Challa. He’s glad he’s been chasing after Steve’s tiny ass for months now, since it means he can pick up speed and get to the front doors faster.

There are Dora Milaje posted outside the doors.

“ _Stop_ ,” one says to him in Wakandan. He can’t even be proud of himself for recognizing the word before the bug in his ear translates it.

“I have to—”

She grabs him around the waist and all but throws him back up the steps. “You have to stop,” she finishes his sentence, in English this time. “You will not help.”

Sam bristles. “Yes, I will! I’ll—I’ll pull him back, I’ll get in front of him—”

“Do you think a bullet will stop the Black Panther?” She asks, almost disdainful.

“I’m not worried about the Black Panther, I’m worried about T’Challa!” Sam yells. It’s sappy and maybe under different circumstances he’d care, but right now his heart is thundering in his throat and he’s on the ledge of a breakdown. His chest is heaving as he gulps in shallow breaths, half from his mad dash and half from fear.

She blinks at him for a second. “He will heal.”

“He just _offered himself_ up,” Sam snarls. “That’s not something I can just let slide.”

“You are not his keeper.”

Sam’s mouth dries up. He has no argument to that. He _isn’t_ T’Challa’s keeper. He isn’t T’Challa’s _anything_ at this point. Well, that’s not right. Regardless of what happens between them romantically, they’re still friends. T’Challa is a _good_ man, overall. He does what he believes is right and he’s selfless and he tells terrible jokes. Even if he weren’t hot as hell and didn’t make Sam’s stomach flutter, Sam wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.

“I’m his friend,” he finally manages to say, voice small.

“Sam!” Steve yells from behind him. Sam’s surprised it took him so long to get down here. Barnes is hot on his heels and Natasha isn’t much farther back.

“All of you will stay inside,” the Dora Milaje tells them. “King’s orders.”

“I can’t just sit there and watch him get hurt!” Sam bursts out. “I have to do something.”

One of the other Dora Milaje comes over and confers with Sam’s jailer. He’d try to get around them if he thought he stood half a chance. Steve puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezes, a little too tight thanks to his own worry.

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve promises. Sam’s glad he doesn’t promise it’s going to be okay. He can’t take any platitudes right now. He’s straining his ears, praying he doesn’t hear any more gunshots. He doesn’t, but he can’t see what’s happening and it’s making him freak out more.

“You may open the door and watch,” the first Dora Milaje decides.

“I can’t just watch,” Sam all but whimpers. He can’t. The sight of T’Challa raising his arms like that keeps getting cut with images of Riley falling, falling, falling, the memory of Rhodey doing the same thing, the sound of Steve crushing his comm and going dark for hours. Sam’s having an anxiety attack. He knows that clinically, and he knows he needs to take deep breaths and calm down.

Knowing it isn’t doing him any good.

Steve’s hovering, eyes wide and worried, and Sam holds up a hand to get him to back off. He does, not looking happy about it, but he doesn’t go far. Sam puts his arms over his head to open his lungs and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s furious with himself. He hasn’t had a anxiety attack like this in years, and this is not a good time. He can’t help T’Challa like this.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his legs feeling rubbery with fear and lack of oxygen, and wills his heart to slow down. After another minute, he’s starting to regain control. He opens his eyes to find the Dora Milaje watching him closely.

“I will open the door, if you wish,” she tells him. “I cannot allow you to go out.”

“Fine,” Sam rasps. Seeing it is better than hearing about it second-hand. She watches him closely for a second before opening the heavy door. T’Challa’s still standing there, but he’s not alone.

Wakandans are standing in front of him, their own arms spread. Sam’s breath catches. T’Challa’s eyebrows are drawn together, but he’s not quite frowning. He doesn’t seem like he quite knows if he should be.

He shouts something in Wakandan, angry and challenging even before Sam knows what he’s saying, and then the translator bug catches up. _If you are truly for the people of Wakanda, you see how they have spoken. Come meet with me and discuss rationally. Do not try to hurt my people again._

Then he stands with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting as every single Wakandan leaves the royal grounds. Sam doesn’t doubt T’Challa is ready to spring into action should any conflicts arise. The crowd disperses, and T’Challa turns around. His eyes lock on Sam’s and Sam can’t take a single breath.

He thought he was going to watch T’Challa die. He honestly thought it. He’s starting to shake from the adrenaline crash, and it doesn’t necessarily get better as T’Challa walks up the steps.

“I asked you to keep him inside,” T’Challa says to the Dora Milaje. Sam doesn’t know if T’Challa noticed the translator; he’s speaking Wakandan, so maybe Sam isn’t supposed to hear this.

“I kept him inside the palace,” she points out. “He did not take direction well.”

“No,” T’Challa says, sounding almost fond. “He does not.” He turns to Sam then, and Sam can’t help the way his hands go to T’Challa’s chest, feeling his heart beat there. T’Challa doesn’t push him away or move.

“I thought you were going to die,” Sam says shakily. “Don’t taunt people like that.”

“I am sorry,” T’Challa murmurs. “They could have hurt my people. The Black Panther is the protector of Wakanda. Whatever that takes.”

Sam doesn’t have anything else to say to that. He knows _why_ T’Challa did it. He’s not actually upset with T’Challa, not necessarily—he’s shaken, and he’s pissed that some assholes were going to _assassinate_ T’Challa. Would Shuri become queen? Sam doesn’t know the succession practices in Wakanda, and now doesn’t seem the ideal time to ask.

“I am sorry,” T’Challa murmurs. “I have to go to some meetings now. But I promise I will be safer. Without a crowd to worry about I do not plan to taunt anyone.”

Sam tries to swallow around the dryness in his throat. He doesn’t really want to let T’Challa out of his sight, but a possible sniper attack isn’t enough to keep T’Challa away from his duty. Sam almost wishes it were.

“Okay,” he grits out numbly. “Yeah.”

“And you and I will talk later?” T’Challa asks.

“Sure,” Sam answers automatically.

“About…the pictures,” T’Challa goes on. Sam blinks. Right. Pictures of them leaked. And then T’Challa said they weren’t courting. That’s right. That happened. Earlier, that was all Sam could think about. Now he can hardly remember it.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam says. T’Challa bites his lip, concern filling his eyes.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

Sam snorts. “Am _I_ alright? I didn’t almost get shot.”

“No,” T’Challa agrees. “But you watched.”

It makes a little shiver go down Sam’s spine. He’s watched too often as people he cares about get hurt. He hates it, and it doesn’t seem like that’s going to end anytime soon. And he also feels guilty. T’Challa is being way calmer about this than he is, and T’Challa was the one in mortal peril.

“I’m fine,” Sam says. T’Challa narrows his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He does spare a glance for Steve, over Sam’s shoulder, and if Sam weren’t suddenly so exhausted he might bristle at the way they’re managing him.

T’Challa touches his cheek and Sam’s eyes slide closed. “I will come find later,” T’Challa promises. “We have much to discuss.”

“Yeah, we do,” Sam says. He comes back to himself a little bit. “We do,” he repeats. T’Challa smiles a little, and Sam doesn’t know if it’s because Sam’s repeating himself or because Sam’s finally starting to get with the program.

For one second, Sam thinks T’Challa’s going to kiss him. And he _wants_ it. But T’Challa is T’Challa, and he said he was giving Sam space. He isn’t going to back down from that. He strokes his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone and murmurs that same phrase in Wakandan he’s been saying for days.

But Sam has the translator in.

“I want to be happy with you for the rest of our days.”

T’Challa’s off, but Sam’s frozen. Something about the phrasing completely grabbed him. Maybe it’s the translation and that’s not exactly what T’Challa means, but Sam suspects the sentiment is the real. Sam’s gaping like a fish.

T’Challa didn’t say he wanted to make Sam happy, and he didn’t say Sam makes him happy. He just said he wants to be happy together. Mutually. Partners. Equals.

So much of Sam’s hang-ups with relationships are about that whole idea. The make-me-happy mandate. Not that Sam thinks people are demanding their partners make them happy; he doesn’t think he ever even realized he felt that way about relationships until now. But with so many of the people he’s dated in the past, he felt like he had to preform perfectly to keep them happy. That’s not what T’Challa’s asking for.

“Sam?” Steve asks cautiously. “You alright?”

Sam releases his breath in a gust. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?” Steve presses, stepping closer. “Sam?”

“Steve,” Barnes says, putting a hand on Steve’s arm to hold him back. “Give him some room.”

“I…” Sam trails off. “Oh.”

“You got any other words, Wilson?” Natasha teases gently. In a few days, Sam might be slightly embarrassed by how his friends are walking on eggshells around him. Or maybe he’ll just be grateful they care.

“No, not really,” Sam says, making Natasha snort.

“You want to go back inside?” Steve asks.

“Okay,” Sam agrees. He can hear how dazed he sounds, and he tries to get himself together. He’s done a spectacular job of freaking his friends the fuck out today. “Um, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Steve promises. He is way too solemn. He’s going to break out into a speech any second, Sam can tell. An actual _giggle_ breaks out of Sam’s mouth. He claps a hand over his mouth and Steve, Barnes, and Natasha all look at him goggle-eyed.

“Did you hit your head somewhere?” Steve asks, at the same moment Barnes says,

“He’s a pod-person.”

“I just, um.”

“Shock?” Natasha suggests. “Let’s go back up and get some sugar in you.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but he realizes she’s not actually wrong. He is in shock. Just not how she thinks. Well, okay, not entirely. He probably _is_ still in shock from the whole almost seeing T’Challa die thing and the ensuing anxiety and crash.

“Okay,” he says.

“Are you like a parrot?” Barnes asks. “Can I teach you any new words? Sammy want a cracker?”

“I don’t want _this_ cracker,” Sam fires back, and Barnes cackles. Steve huffs.

“Well, you must not be too shaken up if you can still give Bucky shit.”

“I could give him shit from the grave,” Sam insists.

“Sure, ‘cause I’d be the one digging your grave,” Barnes says.

“That was a terrible comeback,” Natasha informs him. Barnes just gives her the finger, then reaches across Steve to make sure Sam can see it too.

“If I had another arm I’d be giving you two,” he says.

“I’ll picture it in my head,” Sam vows.

They get up to their apartment and Barnes mother-hens Sam into drinking a glass of juice and eating a warm bowl of oatmeal. It seems to be Barnes’s idea of a universal solution.

“Yes,” Steve says before Sam can ask. “He’s always been this way.”

Sam doesn’t fight against it, since it’s a good idea if he really is in shock. And besides, he likes oatmeal. He starts to feel a lot more normal with the sugar and carbs getting him back on track, but with the return of his baseline comes the mental realization of everything that happened.

“Oh,” he says aloud. Natasha shakes her head.

“Not this again.”

“I’m fine,” Sam snaps, rolling his eyes. “I’m just…processing.”

“What do you need?” Steve asks, all big worried eyes. If he’s so concerned, why was he stealing bites of Sam’s oatmeal two minutes ago?

“I might need a nap,” Sam says.

“That’s a good idea,” Steve says. “Everything looks better in the morning.”

“Okay, well, he’s not going to sleep straight through to morning,” Natasha points out.

Steve waves a hand around. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think _he_ means just sleep until the problem goes away,” Barnes mutters under his breath, earning him laughter from Sam and Natasha and a narrow-eyed glare from Steve.

“Need me to keep watch?” Steve asks, proving that he’s a better friend than the rest of them. They’ve kept watch over each other’s sleep countless times, but it’s been a while. For one thing, Steve’s had Barnes in his bed for a few months. At first that meant Steve just wasn’t really sleeping, since Barnes could hardly sleep through the night and Steve’s a sympathy-insomniac, but then it also meant that Steve didn’t Sam keeping watch for him. They also feel safe here, in their apartment in the palace, knowing T’Challa won’t let harm come to them.

“I think I’m okay,” Sam says. “But I’ll yell if I need you.”

He has no intention of doing that. He’s not even actually going to sleep. He needs to do some heavy-duty thinking, and he can’t do that with the three of them hovering. He gets that they’re probably a little freaked out by seeing him freak out earlier—they’re not exactly used to seeing him like that. Steve’s the most used to it, from their ill-fated and unsuccessful world tour to find Barnes when Sam would wake up from nightmares, but even then Sam could calm himself down in seconds.

Understanding why they’re hovering doesn’t make the hovering less suffocating.

Sam strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed. He’s not going to nap, but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be comfortable while he works through his life-changing realizations. He tugs the translator out of his ear and sets it carefully on his nightstand. Part of him feels a little dishonest with his new knowledge, since T’Challa didn’t know Sam had the earwig in.

On the other hand, there was never anything stopping Sam from looking up what T’Challa was saying. Or asking someone what it meant. Sam’s limited Wakandan may have been a limitation, but he can remember and mimic things pretty well. He could’ve found out without the translator.

The more urgent matter is what Sam’s going to do about this. His sudden breakthrough doesn’t change any of the problems he’s been having with this relationship from the start. Telling the people is a bit moot now, since they saw the pictures. But they don’t know who he is, and they’ll still have to check into his background. He doesn’t want that.

But he closes his eyes and sees T’Challa standing on that platform, arms spread and daring anyone to hurt him, and his stomach lurches. The thought of anything happening to T’Challa makes him want to dry heave. They’re friends, though. Sam doesn’t want anything to happen to Steve or Natasha or—okay, fine—Barnes.

He can also still feel the phantom touch of T’Challa’s thumb sweeping across his cheekbone, remember T’Challa’s lips and tongue and hands as they kissed, and that’s…not something Sam feels for the other three.

Okay, so he has feelings for T’Challa. That’s not exactly new information.

Sam rolls over and smashes his pillow down in frustration. He just doesn’t know what to _do_. All his old reasons for being wary are still there, but they feel a bit muted under the terror of thinking T’Challa was going to get shot. Once everything calms down, will the worries and fears come back full-force? Sam doesn’t want to tell T’Challa he’s ready to go all-in if he’s going to change his mind again. Sam groans quietly. How’s he supposed to know what to do?

His computer is blinking at him. He sighs. Normally, this is when he’d talk to his mother. Well, no, okay, _normally_ he would’ve talked to his mother the minute this all started. He probably wouldn’t be so confused right now if he’s talked to his mother first thing.

His excuses not to tell her seem pretty weak now. He opens his laptop and goes to his email. He hates that he’s doing it in an email, but desperate times and all. Sam lays it all out for her, making sure to bring up the fact that he might have to stay in Wakanda. She won’t like that.

Her response comes less than two minutes after he hits send. It makes him jump. Was she just sitting there waiting? No, of course not. She has her email on her phone.

_Are all your reasons just excuses because you’re scared?_

Sam blinks. That’s the entire email. Really? He huffs. His email was seven paragraphs long and she sends him back one sentence.

It’s an important sentence, though.

And she’s right. Sam knew it before, has thought about it fleetingly, but hearing it in his mother’s voice (or reading it and imagining her voice, whatever) cements it in his mind. Sure, having to stay in Wakanda is a concern. But Sam hasn’t even asked T’Challa if that’s really what will happen. And yeah, he doesn’t want the whole Wakandan people up in his business. But he had paparazzi starting to follow him around in New York and he wasn’t hiding under his bed there.

He’s being a coward.

Sam texts T’Challa. _Please come talk to me when you have time._ T’Challa was already going to, but still. Sam wants T’Challa to know he’s ready for it. T’Challa doesn’t answer, but he’s probably pretty wrapped up at the moment. But it’s okay. Sam can wait.

 

It takes a few hours, and Sam actually does fall asleep for a little while, but then he hears T’Challa’s voice in the living room. He springs out of his bed and trips on his shoes, which he left directly in his own way. He curses and rubs sleep out of his eyes, trying to rub his hair into some semblance of submission. He clears his throat a few times and hopes it isn’t too obvious he was asleep.

T’Challa’s lost his tie somewhere and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He looks _delectable._ Sam scolds himself internally. There will be time for that later. First he has to be a grownup and use his words.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sam suggests. Steve, Barnes, and Natasha are watching him with wide eyes. He realizes he didn’t tell them anything about his big revelation or what he’s going to say to T’Challa. Oops.

“Alright,” T’Challa says warily. He nods at the other before closing the door behind him. Sam steels himself for a second, and then he slips his hand into T’Challa’s. T’Challa starts, but then he squeezes Sam’s hand.

“I’d say the garden, but I’m not sure how private it is,” Sam says. T’Challa’s lips tighten.

“Oh, do not worry, it is secure now,” he says darkly. 

“What happened to Nakia?”

“Well, she will never work in the Wakandan government again.”

“Is she in jail?” Sam asks worriedly.

T’Challa frowns at him. “We are not that kind of monarchy.” He sounds a little insulted, and Sam can’t really blame him. “I am not a dictator.”

“But she did leak secrets from the government,” Sam points out. He’s glad T’Challa didn’t have her arrested, but now he feels kind of silly for asking.

“It was not national security,” T’Challa shrugs. Sam scoffs at him.

“Almost getting you killed? Selling you out to the White Gorilla tribe? What about treason?”

“They are Wakandan too,” T’Challa reminds him. “She was not working with an outside government.”

“She tried to have you overthrown!”

T’Challa shakes his head. “The people are allowed to ask for a vote to make me step down. That is within their rights. I do not appreciate them endangering the lives of my people and the ones responsible for the gunshots will be punished. But Nakia did not shoot a weapon.”

Sam takes a deep breath and makes himself calm down. This isn’t his government and these aren’t his laws. He doesn’t even know the law here. He’s just upset because T’Challa was in danger.

“I am sorry the picture got out,” T’Challa says softly, leading Sam to the same bench from the other night. “Your privacy should not have been violated that way.”

“Yours either,” Sam reminds him. T’Challa shrugs. Sam knows he’s a bit used to his privacy being a sort of nebulous thing. Sam licks his lips. His palms are starting to sweat a little bit in anticipation of what he’s about to say.

“I had the translator bug in today,” he says. T’Challa looks surprised, and then a bit chagrined.

“Ah,” he says. “So you know what I said.”

“Yeah,” Sam admits. T’Challa’s blushing a little, and it makes Sam’s heart give a little twinge of affection.

“I am sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“It made me very uncomfortable,” Sam tells him. T’Challa looks like he’s about to apologize again, so Sam cuts him off. “It made me think about a lot of things I’ve been trying not to think about. I, uh. I’ve been a huge chicken. And I’m not that kind of bird.”

It takes a second before T’Challa makes a face and shakes his head. “That is ridiculous,” he mutters. “Your worst bird joke yet.”

Sam laughs a little, but he’s trying to stay focused here, bird jokes aside. “I have some questions about how it would all work,” he says, heart pounding. “But I…I was letting my own issues and fears hold me back from being with you.”

T’Challa waits, but Sam’s sort of run out of words. “And now?” T’Challa asks softly. Sam swallows and takes T’Challa’s hand again.

“Now I think I’m ready. Once we clear up some of my questions.”

“Questions?” T’Challa asks.

“Well, I mean, do I have to stop being an Avenger? Steve’s not going to sit tight for much longer. He’s gotta be punching bad guys or he’ll lose it. Am I gonna be able to go with him on missions? I can’t just quit.”

“I know,” T’Challa murmurs. “I do not see why you would not be able to go on missions. With adequate backup.”

Sam’s mouth is dry. There’s one barrier down. “And, um, do I have to renounce my US citizenship?”

T’Challa’s already shaking his head _no_ before Sam can finish the question. “I would never ask you to do that. You do not have to be a Wakandan citizen.”

“Okay.” Sam blows out a breath. There’s hurdle number two. “I…I need to see my family sometimes. I can’t just never see them again.”

“Of course,” T’Challa says, concerned. “Sam, I know this. It is difficult now with your government labeling you a traitor and a fugitive, but as soon as things get better I would expect nothing else than for you to visit your family.”

“And you’re gonna have to meet them, too,” Sam adds quietly. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t love my mama.”

T’Challa’s smile is slow but grows big enough to make Sam’s breath catch. “I already love her for bringing you into this world.”

Sam snorts. “Don’t gimme that cheesy shit. You’ll meet her and suck up to her just like anyone else.”

T’Challa laughs out loud. “Yes, sir,” he jokes. And then…Sam’s out of excuses. The people digging into his background will suck, but he would’ve gotten that in the States, too.

“What happened with the White Gorillas?” Sam asks.

T’Challa’s face falls. “We are organizing a vote for the people,” he says. “It will take a few days to set it up, and then there will be two days for people to vote and then…” He sighs. “Then I will find out if I am still king.”

Sam squeezes T’Challa’s hand and rubs his other hand on T’Challa’s leg. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “If they vote you out, does it go to Shuri?”

“Shuri says she will not take the throne.”

“What?” Sam pulls back a little to get a better look at T’Challa’s face.

“I will work on convincing her,” T’Challa promises. “It is better for the people if she takes the throne. But she thinks she is being loyal to me.”

“Can’t blame her for that,” Sam says.

T’Challa shrugs. “The White Gorilla tribe will not be happy with her, either. They want to put in their own king and start a new royal line. I will work on Shuri’s pride to make sure it does not happen.”

That gets Sam to laugh a little, because Shuri definitely has a lot of pride. He thinks it’s pretty well deserved. “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Sam says, and he actually does mean it. Sure, a lot of their problems would go away if T’Challa wasn’t the king anymore, but Sam’s not selfish enough to hope for that. T’Challa has been preparing for this his entire life and takes his duty too seriously to be anything other than crushed if the worst happens.

“I do as well,” T’Challa says. He bites his lip. “Do you have any other questions?” He sounds nervous and for a second Sam can’t figure out why. Oh, right. He made it sound like if T’Challa didn’t have the right answers Sam was done. Sam answers him with a kiss and T’Challa wastes no time kissing back.

“Last question,” Sam says, making T’Challa huff against his lips. “Do you have any other meetings tonight or can we do this for a while?”

T’Challa rumbles out a low chuckle that Sam will probably dream about for a while. “I am all yours,” he murmurs into Sam’s ear. For once, Sam doesn’t think about the kingdom or the paparazzi or the pressure. He smiles into T’Challa’s kiss and believes it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omgggg it's finished! Thank you everyone for reading and leaving comments!!

Sam ducks to avoid a foot coming straight for his face. He really doesn’t want to break his nose again—it’s barely healed from last month’s fight with a hidden HYDRA cell in Paris and he doesn’t want his face to be sore later. He’s got plans.

He can tell someone’s watching him from behind, even over the sounds of Barnes grunting and Steve goading his opponent. It’s that feeling on the back of his neck, but he can’t waste any time glancing over his shoulder.

“Alright,” Shuri finally says, swiping a hand over her forehead. “We will stop now. I am going to get overruled any moment.”

Sam doesn’t fight the grin that takes over his face. He knows who’s behind him. He takes his time turning around, bending down to grab his water bottle and showing off his ass a bit. No harm in showcasing the goods.

When he finally turns, T’Challa is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his face. “Hello,” he calls out.

“Hi,” Sam answers, sauntering forward. T’Challa’s eyes light up but he stays planted. “How was your flight?”

“It was long,” T’Challa sighs. “But I am grateful it went well.”

Sam shakes his head. It always takes a few hours for T’Challa to shake off the diplomacy when he gets home. Sam crowds T’Challa against the fence he’s leaning on. “I’m grateful it wasn’t longer,” he murmurs, a hair’s breadth between their lips.

“Mm,” T’Challa agrees, closing the gap. They haven’t seen each other in nearly three weeks; Sam was in Paris for a month, and T’Challa was already gone to meet with the White Gorilla Tribe when he got back. They keep their kisses chaste; Steve and Barnes are still sparring with the Dora Milaje assigned to protect Sam when he’s in Wakanda, and they’re out in the open. Even though the people know about their courtship and accept it, they don’t need more photos of them plastered all over the tabloids.

“Come inside,” T’Challa whispers.

“Yes,” Sam says.

“Bye, Sam,” Barnes sing-songs. “Have a good time!” Steve wolf-whistles obnoxiously while Shuri curses at them both.

“My brother,” she reminds them, getting a quick strike in on Barnes’s ribs that makes him double over, half-laughing and half-groaning.

“You don’t hit Steve?” He whines.

“Traitor,” Steve says, somehow injecting the word with more fondness than most people put into pet names. Shuri responds by sweeping Steve’s legs out from under him, making Barnes crumple to the ground, laughing too hard to stand. Sam laughs a little, but T’Challa’s tugging his hand and Sam’s got some pressing matters to attend to.

T’Challa doesn’t even wait for the doors to close behind them before he presses Sam to the wall and kisses the hell out of him. Sam’s legs are already tired from sparring Shuri; he blames the workout for how weak his knees go.

“Hey,” Sam gets out between kisses. “Come on.”

“Yeah,” T’Challa agrees, making no move to head to his quarters. Something about that one word—not his usual _yes_ but instead a casual _yeah_ —drives Sam wild. He groans into T’Challa’s mouth.

“Okay, but really,” he pants, realizing he’s going to have to be the one to get them moving. He pulls back and T’Challa all but growls at him. Sam huffs and pushes at T’Challa to get him walking. T’Challa reaches over and takes Sam’s hand, squeezing lightly, and Sam’s head spins from how fast the mood changes. It was frantic and hot, but with the brush of T’Challa’s thumb over Sam’s knuckles, everything’s slowed down and sweetened.

“I’m so happy you’re back,” Sam says honestly as T’Challa does the retinal scan to get into his quarters.

“I am happy _you’re_ back,” T’Challa counters. Sam laughs a little. It still seems strange, sometimes, that they made it here.

Things were tense, politically, after everything with the White Gorilla Tribe happened. T’Challa organized the new vote, as promised, and then they had to wait three days for the results. The worst part was the fact that results came in a matter of hours, but custom dictated three different counts of the votes.

Wakanda had voted to keep T’Challa on the throne, and Sam was big enough to admit—to himself; he wasn’t going to burden T’Challa with it—a sliver of him was almost disappointed. It made him feel selfish and guilty, but so many of their struggles would have been solved with T’Challa off the throne.

But overall, Sam’s happy the people came to their senses. They did demand T’Challa be forthcoming with his courting, a request T’Challa was all too happy to oblige. Sam’s relationship with the Wakandan people is…less straightforward. They like him, but he knows they don’t trust him. Yet. He’s working on it.

“You’re thinking very hard,” T’Challa says once they’re inside, tugging off his tie. Now that they’re facing the bed, they’re taking their time.

“I’m sweaty,” Sam says. It’s a non-sequitur, but it’s also true.

T’Challa shrugs blithely. “I do not mind at all.” Sam’s mouth goes a little dry as T’Challa slips out of his starched dress shirt. They’ve been together for four months now, openly courting for all of Wakanda to know, and Sam still gets tongue-tied at the sight of T’Challa’s shoulders coming free of all that fabric.

“You’re about to get me more sweaty, huh?”

T’Challa’s smile turns predatory. _Panther_ , Sam thinks, smirking to himself. “Oh, yes,” T’Challa promises. Sam steps closer and slides T’Challa’s belt from the loops, relishing the way T’Challa’s pupils dilate at the motion. There isn’t a lot of talking going on after that.

After, they lie on the soft sheets with sunlight streaming through the window. T’Challa quizzes Sam on his Wakandan vocabulary, which is still woefully small. He’s getting better, though. He’s proud of that.

T’Challa slides one finger down the side of Sam’s face. “ _Love_ ,” he murmurs in Wakandan. “ _Filling my heart_.”

Sam swallows hard. “Yeah, I caught all that,” he says, a little weakly. T’Challa’s soft smile doesn’t dim.

“Good,” he says instead.

Sam’s breath catches. That’s not somewhere they’ve gone. Neither of them have been shy with their affections, but love? That’s big. That’s something else.

“Do not worry,” T’Challa soothes gently. “That is not pressure.”

“I know,” Sam says, voice coming out more defensive than he meant. T’Challa rises up onto an elbow.

“I am not saying anything you are not ready to hear,” he promises.

“You know what I’m ready for?”

“No,” T’Challa says, frustrated. “I just meant—”

“I know,” Sam cuts him off quietly. “Sorry. You know I get a little freaked out.”

T’Challa sighs and lies back down. “You can freak out if you need.”

“I just need us to take it a day at a time.”

“I know. That is fine with me.”

Sam laughs a little. “Thanks, Your Highness.”

T’Challa wrinkles his nose. “I am not used to respect coming from you.”

Now Sam laughs out loud. “I always respect you.”

T’Challa harrumphs and slides his hand under the sheet to find Sam’s ass. “I think you respect parts of me.”

“Now you’re just trying to distract me,” Sam accuses.

“I have a few motivations,” T’Challa admits. Sam grins and lets it lie. They have better things to do after so much time apart, and he’s happy to do them.

 

“Mr. Falcon! Mr. Falcon!”

The Wakandan media never calls Sam by his name, just Mr. Falcon. Sam can’t say he’s terribly unhappy with it. But it gets annoying having them yell at him like that. They only get away with it for a few minutes before Sam’s personal Dora Milaje team—T’Challa’s cousin Lulu and Shuri’s best friend Jamila—stare them down and they scatter.

Sam had been kind of resistant to having his own bodyguards. He didn’t think anything would happen to him, and he still doesn’t, really, but T’Challa told him it was tradition. Sam doesn’t want to step on any toes and he doesn’t want to insult the Wakandans and make them change their minds about him.

“When will you and the king get married?” One reporter calls. Sam tenses, but Jamila decides that’s enough and raises an eyebrow. Sam doesn’t know if she’s actually that terrifying or if the press just knows when they’re pushing their luck, but they scatter.

“Are you going to run away?” Lulu asks. She’s a bit more in Sam’s face than Jamila, probably because she’s known T’Challa since he was born and is protective of him. Everyone seems pretty protective of T’Challa. Sam can relate.

“No,” Sam says. And he isn’t. Sure, four months is too soon for him to be ready to talk marriage, but it’s not like he doesn’t know they’re heading there. Every day he gets less scared of that. He hasn’t had to put his head between his knees for nearly two months.

“Sam!” Steve yells. “You’ve been gone forever.”

Sam snorts. He went with Shuri to visit the Academy and was gone for an hour and a half. Not exactly forever.

“You missed me that much, huh?”

“He cried,” Barnes says, grabbing Steve in a headlock. “Pretend I’m giving you a noogie,” he orders.

“Quit!” Steve obediently yells, scrunching up his face dramatically. Sam rushes forward to act as Barnes’s missing hand and does the noogie for him. It surprises Steve into yelping for real and Barnes into laughing and letting go of Steve. Steve retaliates by taking Sam down and sitting on him.

“I thought you were supposed to protect me!” Sam yells at Lulu and Jamila.

“You should be able to do _some_ things yourself,” Jamila points out.

“Where’s T’Challa?” Barnes asks, nudging at Sam’s leg with his foot.

“Meeting with his advisors. Ruling the kingdom takes up so much time,” Sam complains. Steve stops shoving Sam’s face in the dirt for a second.

“Is he gonna be done by dinner? We don’t have to go out tonight. He just got back.”

“Yeah, maybe you guys want some privacy,” Barnes leers.

Sam uses Steve’s distraction to flip them over and take Barnes down in the process. Barnes squawks indignantly.

“He should be done,” Sam says. “If not, we can just go without him.”

They don’t get as much time together as Sam wishes they did, but they’ve both got responsibilities to deal with. T’Challa’s busy taking care of the country, and Sam goes off with Steve, Barnes, and sometimes Natasha on missions Nick Fury sends them. Most nights, unless one of them is somewhere else, Sam and T’Challa get to sleep beside each other and wake up to morning kisses. There are worse things in the world.

The three of them tussle around for a little longer, but the afternoon sun is zapping them of most energy. Lulu and Jamila don’t stick around long; once Sam’s inside the palace grounds, they mostly let him fend for himself.

Steve, Sam, and Barnes are lying on the ground, and Sam is ignoring the way Barnes is stealthily creeping over to lie more on Steve than the ground. It’s even odds whether he’s doing it for the physical touch or just because he doesn’t want to be on the ground. A shadow blots out the sun and Sam looks up to see T’Challa standing over them.

“Hello,” he says, wasting no time before flopping down.

“Your suit!” Sam protests, so T’Challa takes a page out of Barnes’s book and lies on top of Sam.

Steve cracks up laughing. “That shut you up.”

“I’ll shut you up,” Sam mutters.

“Are we going to dinner?” T’Challa asks. Sam rubs at the back of T’Challa’s neck, trying to ease out some of the tension he always finds there.

“How much time do you have?” Sam asks.

“I am done for the day.”

“Then let’s stay here a little longer,” Barnes suggests, voice slow and drowsy. He’s got his head tucked under Steve’s chin and Steve’s smiling. Sam feels a smile taking over his own face. He’s content. He’s _happy_. This is what he’s always wanted in a relationship.

“I will have to leave again in three days,” T’Challa mumbles, eyes closed. “I have been asked to attend a meeting with General Ross.”

All the contentment drains away from their group. “Ross,” Steve spits, trying to sit up. Barnes holds him in place, burying his face tighter against Steve’s neck.

“It will be good to see what kind of information he has,” T’Challa points out. “I have agreed to meet with him.”

“How long will you be gone?” Sam asks. “You better take extra guards. I don’t want that asshole thinking he can just hold you there.”

“He would not dare,” T’Challa scoffs. “That would be an international scandal.”

“He held Sam in an _underwater super prison_ ,” Steve reminds him. “He was going to kill Bucky! Let me come with you. I’ll take care of him.”

“Take it easy,” Barnes says. “You’d get picked up the second you got into the country. And I don’t think you need any _more_ speculation about plots to take down the US government.”

Steve shrugs. “They’d deserve it.”

“I will take my guards,” T’Challa promises. “But I was thinking. I will be in your home city. Would it be alright if I asked your mother to meet for lunch?”

Sam’s completely floored. He feels like that came out of left field, though really, he probably should’ve seen it coming. There’s no other name for the feeling clogging his throat just then except jealousy. T’Challa can go to D.C. with impunity and see Sam’s mom, and Sam can’t.

Sam swallows hard. “Oh.”

He hears Barnes make a little noise in the back of his throat. “We’re gonna go inside,” he says quickly.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Um, let us know if you…well, depending how things…uh, we’ll be inside.”

“Smooth,” they can hear Barnes mutter as the two of them make their way up the palace steps. Then it’s just Sam and T’Challa. Sam’s arms are locked around T’Challa’s back, but it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore.

“Is that too much?” T’Challa asks. He’s trying to be patient, but Sam can hear frustration in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. “I just…kinda thought I’d be there the first time you meet her.”

T’Challa’s eyes soften, but he bites his lip. “We do not know how long that would take. You want to wait…indefinitely?”

“I didn’t really think about it,” Sam lies. He’s thought about T’Challa meeting his mother plenty, but in a hazy fantasy where the Accords never happened.

T’Challa takes a deep breath. “Sam, I am trying my best to move this relationship forward, but I feel like you are fighting back. If you do not want—”

“I want to be with you,” Sam interrupts before T’Challa can voice the fear. “I just…I’m far away from my family. That’s hard for me.”

“I know,” T’Challa says quietly. “But I am not sure what you want me to do.”

“I want you to build a time machine to go back so Ross never came up with the Accords,” Sam jokes. But T’Challa doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“We would not have met.”

Sam doesn’t know what to say. He was just teasing, but yeah, he’s thought his life would be better if Ross had never shown up that day. He’s never put much thought into the fact that he met T’Challa because of it.

“I think we would’ve,” he says slowly. “You and your dad were working with the US more. You would’ve come to New York or DC and they would’ve made us come in to meet you. A parade or something.”

T’Challa snorts. “Does your government usually throw a parade for visiting dignitaries?”

“Oh sure, they love Africa, didn’t you know?” Sam asks dryly. It makes T’Challa laugh and some of the tension dissipates.

“I will work on finding some plutonium,” T’Challa promises, and now it’s Sam’s turn to laugh. “Will you please think over me having lunch with your mother? I want to meet her, but I will not do it unless you are comfortable.”

“I’ll think about it,” Sam promises. T’Challa nods and then slides their lips together.

“Let’s go get dinner before your friends eat each other.”

“Wow, there are so many things I could say to that.”

T’Challa makes a face. “You Americans are so obsessed with sex.”

“I didn’t say anything about sex. So maybe _you’re_ obsessed with sex.”

T’Challa shrugs. “A bit.” He stands up carefully, gracefully, and somehow keeps his suit completely clean.

Sam cracks up and takes the hand T’Challa offers him. T’Challa doesn’t bring it up again at dinner, or later that night when they’re getting into bed. He acts completely normal, but Sam can’t stop staring at him.

He tosses and turns all night. He must finally drift off, because he wakes up way later than usual and T’Challa’s already gone. He can’t decide if he feels guilty about that. There’s a knock on the door, and he wonders if that’s what woke him up.

It’s Shuri. Sam’s not sure if he should open it. She might be mad at him for upsetting T’Challa. Is T’Challa upset? He acted normal all night. But he probably _is_ upset. He basically told Sam he’s not going to wait forever. Which is justified. But kind of stung. Sam shakes his spinning head and lets Shuri in.

“You are not dressed,” she notes.

“Thanks for the update,” Sam shoots back. She mutters in Wakandan and Sam’s pretty sure the translation means something like _touchy_.

“You did not sleep well,” she says. “That is obvious.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Would you like to tell me what is bothering you?” Shuri asks. She looks uncomfortable even asking, but Sam knows it’s genuine. Shuri doesn’t say anything she doesn’t mean. He’s oddly touched, even with her grimacing her way through the question.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he says.

“It is T’Challa,” she guesses.

“Not really. But relationship stuff.”

She stares at him for a minute. It’s always unnerving when she does this, like she’s examining him or reading his mind or something. And she always narrows her eyes while she does it, like she’s not impressed with what she’s seeing.

“I do not want details,” she finally says, which Sam _knew_ and that’s why he didn’t _tell_ her. “I am in an uncomfortable position between you.”

“Well, you would pick his side,” Sam points out. “If there are sides. I don’t think there are for this.”

“I do not follow my brother blindly,” she says warningly. She really hates when people act like she’s a brainless drone. Not that Sam blames her.

“No, I just mean…he’s your brother.” Sam shrugs.

“And you are my friend.”

Sam’s speechless for a solid minute, it feels like. “I am?”

Shuri looks unsure for half a second before she covers it up. “No.”

Sam grins. “We’re friends. You _like_ me.”

“I do not. Please get dressed and come to the gym. We have much work to do with your hand-to-hand combat. You rely on flying and get lazy.”

Sam doesn’t even let her criticism rankle, even though it’s _not even true_. He has great hand-to-hand skills. Not everyone can be a super-trained ninja. He keeps grinning at her. “Okay, friend.”

She’s hissing Wakandan swear words at him, but she’s also laughing a little, and that little bubble of happiness from the day before comes back. Sam misses his family in a dull ache that doesn’t quite ever go away. But it’s not like his life is devoid of happiness. He can’t be with his family right now, so he’s made a new one.

_Oh_.

It stops him in his tracks, shirt halfway over his head. He _does_ have a new little family. Steve and Barnes and Natasha and Shuri. _T’Challa_. There’s no denying he’s in that circle. And Sam’s keeping him apart from his other family. That can’t feel good to T’Challa.

“I gotta go,” Sam says, scrambling into his shoes. “I gotta talk to T’Challa.”

“Yes, we will just pause your training while you work out your personal life,” Shuri says, rolling her eyes. “Let us hope no one attacks you on your way there.”

Sam flaps a hand at her as he runs out the door. He skids to a stop outside the council door. He can’t just bust in and demand T’Challa talk to him. For one thing, the door’s protected with a fingerprint scanner. He looks at the Dora Milaje posted at the door.

“Can you get a message to the king for me?”

“He is busy,” the first one answers.

“They will break in ten minutes,” the other adds, a little warmer. Some of the people in Wakanda _love_ Sam. Maybe she’s one of his fans. “You may wait.”

“Thanks,” he says, giving her a smile because he’s not dumb enough to alienate anyone willing to help him. It’s an excruciating ten minutes. He didn’t even bring his phone with him. Finally, the door opens, and Sam springs up from the floor where he’d been resting against the wall.

“Sam?” T’Challa says. “Is everything alright?” Sam takes him by the elbow and guides him a little ways down the hall to give them some privacy. He doesn’t miss the way both Dora Milaje track their movements, but he’ll take what he can get.

“I want you to meet my mom,” Sam blurts out. “I think it’s way past time.”

T’Challa processes for a minute—sometimes after meetings where everyone’s speaking Wakandan, it takes him a second to switch gears into English—and then grins so wide and beautiful Sam wants to press him up against the wall and kiss him senseless. He holds back, since they’re not exactly alone, but he does reach out and take T’Challa’s hand.

“You’re important to me,” he says. “It’s important you meet my mom.”

“This makes me very happy,” T’Challa tells him, like his ear-to-ear smile isn’t a give-away. “I did think about what you said, wanting to be there when I meet her. I have an idea.”

“You do?” Sam asks, almost giddy. “You usually have good ideas.”

T’Challa laughs and leans in to kiss Sam gently. “I think you will like this one.”

 

Sam jumps when his phone buzzes. He’s been staring at it for twenty minutes, willing it to ring, but somehow he wasn’t ready when it actually did. He takes a deep breath and answers the video call. T’Challa’s smile is the first thing he sees.

“Hey,” Sam says.

“Hello,” T’Challa answers. “We have fifteen minutes. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Sam promises. T’Challa looks into his eyes, checking in with him. Sam gives him a smile and nod. “I promise. I’m so happy you’re meeting her.”

“Me too.” T’Challa pushes open the door to the coffee shop. Everything’s loud, and the picture is all blurry while T’Challa moves, but then Sam is being pointed at his mother. His throat goes tight as he watches his mom first look T’Challa up and down and then focus on him on the phone screen.

“Hello, Sammy boy,” she says, smiling the same smile she’s given him his entire life.

“Hi, Mama,” he answers. “You doing alright?”

“Of course,” she answers. “You know I’m always alright.”

Sam laughs. “Of course you are.” He can’t see T’Challa, since he’s holding the phone, but Sam’s heart feels like it’s going to burst. He swallows and waits until his mom’s looking at him again. “Hey, Mama? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Her eyes dart up to look at T’Challa. She’s grinning and looks back at him to wink. Sam cracks up. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been this happy. “He looks like a good one,” she stage-whispers. “He must mean a lot to you.”

“He is a good one, Mama,” Sam says. “And he means the world to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this is a dreamworld where the US does not have the same things happening right now that we do. Because there is NO WAY these boys wouldn't rush home, consequences be damned, to deal with this mess.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://www.biblionerd07.tumblr.com)


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